


Sour Candy

by Mephistophilia



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, MACUSA, Ministry of Magic, Multi, Nurmengard, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25744774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mephistophilia/pseuds/Mephistophilia
Summary: In which Albus Dumbledore loses the famous duel of 1945, and the course of fate is forever changed in response. Work in progress.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Leta Lestrange/Theseus Scamander, Queenie Goldstein/Jacob Kowalski, Tina Goldstein/Newt Scamander
Comments: 148
Kudos: 279





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a quick word to say that I have absolutely no idea of what I’m doing here, only that I really wanted to do it since the scenario in which Albus loses has not been often explored. I have no particular plot in mind, and updates will not be regular since I go back to high-school in one week, but I hope I can keep on writing, because it is to me the most comforting pastime I can ever indulge in. Note that English is not my mother-tongue, and there may be weird bits and pieces in here, so please leave comments! I’d like to know what you think of this...

The moment his slender fingers felt the smooth wood of his wand being jerked from his grasp with a biting sting, he knew it was over.

He knew it, without having to see the smile of triumph adorning Gellert ’ s beautiful, beautiful face  —  a face he had come to know as well as his own during the three hours of their duel. He knew its every inch of smooth skin and proud features. The lines of it were as elegant and sharp and majestic as he had come to expect, a face befitting a wizard of boundless strength and stunning ingenuity, whose revolution would now make him master of the entire world. A face he saw often enough in the middle of the night, when sleep forsook him and the loneliness of an endless day awaited him in just a few hours. He saw it in the Mirror of Erised, he saw it in the Pensieve sitting in his quiet room, and he saw it in his mind ’ s eye when the shades of evening drew him closer into its cool embrace as the silence of another night of solitude threatened to engulf him. He saw it now, as the man it belonged to strode close to his defenseless form with steps full of determination, and, dare he say it, immense satisfaction. The crowd that had been watching melted back into itself, its ceaseless murmur now a roar of raw sound  —  he could hear the cries of anguish from his allies, and he thought he could recognize a few voices  —  friends who placed all their faith in him, only to have it shattered like a pane of stained glass. He had failed them, and now all he could hear with clarity were the shouts of triumph from Gellert ’ s followers...  _Acolytes_ ,  as he called them, urging their master on to deliver the  _ coup de grace _ . A complete victory for the Alliance, the revolution that would now to be free to remake their world as they saw fit.

He kept his gaze trained firmly upon the wizard approaching him, though from the corner of his eye he thought he could see a few Ministry employees slipping away into the shadows. It was clear enough to them, whatever would happen next, and they obviously did not wish to bear witness. They had lost, that was all. The Ministries and the International Confederation had lost, and Grindelwald would soon turn his relentless eyes upon them, to stamp out the last few shreds of opposition. People like Leonard Spencer-Moon and Seraphina Picquery would no doubt suffer Gellert ’ s wrath, should they continue to resist him, but the majority of Wizardkind would survive this war, unscathed. That comforted him slightly, the thought that Gellert would not kill needlessly or senselessly, though his own life now hung by a thread and he knew not what to expect from the man whom he once loved with every fiber of his being. Perhaps he still loved him. He no longer knew, as the days and nights before the duel blurred into one great stretch of blank misery, the dread weight of what he had to do crushing him so that every breath was a labor he did not wish to perform.  _ Breathe _ , he told himself as Gellert loomed over him, impossibly tall and close.  _Breathe, so that you do not show fear_.

It was easier said than done. His body did not feel like his own anymore, an alien contraption strangely heavy and wooden. He saw the thin dark length of his wand held securely between Gellert ’ s long, elegant fingers, and the realization of his failure made the blood pool in his throat, so that it became raw and swollen from his silent screams inside. Failure. Such a bitter cup to drink from. And he thought he once knew pain. He thought he knew it, when he saw the life snuffed out of his sister and the only man he ’ d ever loved turn his back on him, turning into the rain soaked night... right in front of him.

The crowd was deathly quiet now.

Up close, Gellert was much taller than he had expected, towering over him by at least half a head, his height gracefully borne by a long dark coat of a heavy, smooth material. Next to Albus ’  slender, more rounded body, he looked imposing, all hard muscle and lean contours. It felt strange to be so close to another human being, close enough to feel Gellert ’ s warm breath that smelled of clean mountain air, and feel the solid heat of his body pressed almost upon his own, close and too close. His mismatched eyes glowed brightly, and Albus thought he could discern a particle of... was that amusement? Or satisfaction? It certainly served to unsettle him. 

He never wanted any of this. This, this mess he had gotten himself into, with his wand gone and Gellert not six inches from him, a silent, watchful crowd holding its breath as it prepared for the aftermath of a duel Albus had known he could not afford to lose. It had been a moment of hesitation and of weakness, when he saw an opening and could not for the life of him bring himself to use it  —  and so Gellert did. One quick spell  —  _ Expelliarmus _ —  and he was now Grindelwald ’ s prisoner, just another pretty jewel ornamenting Gellert ’ s crown, a cheque declaring his ownership upon the Wizarding community  —  as if he didn ’ t own it already. 

It was Gellert ’ s rich voice that jolted him back into reality, and he tensed slightly, as though readying himself for the bite of a whip.

“ Hello,  _Mein Liebling_. ”  The words were low, and Albus thought he could detect no mockery in it, though it was hard to be sure. 

“ Grindelwald, ”  he replied curtly, and to his credit his voice did not tremble or falter. 

The wizard before him frowned slightly, the barest lines imprinted upon his brow, but if he was in any way irked by that, he did not show it. Instead he jerked his head slightly, and two of his Acolytes stepped forward, to grip Albus firmly by each arm. One was Abernathy, a former MACUSA official, and the other a tall man he did not recognize.  _ Not that it matters, who he is _ , he thought, the pain of his wounds blanketing him all of a sudden, almost dragging him to his knees,  _ just another rung in Gellert ’ s ladder to the sky _ . He could see himself now, as though his eyes were planted in the crowd instead of his own head, and he saw his own delicate form drenched in scarlet blood, the rapidly cooling liquid staining the neat cotton material of his light grey three-piece. There was a shallow cut on his left cheek, no doubt left there when he was too slow to deflect a certain spell that numbed half his arm when it struck, mere seconds before his defeat. There were more cuts that burned, and he could see that Gellert wasn ’ t much better off, but he was the one who had won, and naturally that made all the difference. 

His legs moved automatically as the two Acolytes started guiding him away from the crowd, away from their watchful silence and the combination of resentful stares and gleeful triumph. The amount of force applied by the two men was unyielding, but they were careful not to tug on his gaping cuts, and for that he was grateful. Exhaustion made him lightheaded, and as he turned away from the scene of his defeat he saw Gellert facing the crowd, ready to deliver another speech that would cement their loyalty and quail their misgivings. Then the figure of his former lover was jerked from his view as his two captors led him further still, away from the waning daylight slanting across the square where they had their duel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not too much is happening here... Albus is taken away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for the kind and encouraging comments! I’ve been trying my best to pick up speed, but it’s kinda difficult because much of this is written solely for fun, and real life still has numerous plans for me. I have so many books to read, and only so much time to write, and school is still looming large in the near future, so I really don’t have that many hopes for myself. But anyhow — hope you like this!

They led him into one of the buildings leaning over the square, and he caught a glimpse of elegant furniture and plush carpets as he was whisked through multiple rooms, though his brain felt soggy and he could not make sense of much that he saw. It suddenly struck him that he knew not where he was being led  —  he had not made any plans for a scenario in which he lost, and Gellert had given no indication of what he intended to do with his new prisoner. If he were Gellert and the two men guiding him Ministry Aurors, he would probably be walking to his execution, or else a tower cell in which he would never again exit.  _ But I am not Gellert. _ Gellert had won, and he had  _lost_.

Then it hit him, that brutal realization of what it meant and all that it implies. He had lost, and Gellert is now free to establish his dominance over the whole of Europe and no doubt the entire Wizarding world as well, for the horrors of the war had raged on far longer than anyone had imagined, and the majority of the public was desperate for the dust to settle even though they may not like the final outcome. He thought they ’ d seen the worst when the Great War ended, though part of him knew (and later on denied) that the peace of 1919 was not a peace  —  it was only armistice for twenty years, but he had denied that troublesome notion when Grindelwald began marshaling his forces, building an army out of the ashes of Europe ’ s first destruction, feeding on the doubts and fears of their community, which had been conveniently augmented by the incompetence of the Ministries. Had he not known where their lack of capabilities would lead? He had been presented with proof of that firsthand, when Torquil Travers and his witless entourage first shackled him in Hogwarts.  _I cannot move against Grindelwald_.

Oh, but he had, hadn ’ t he? He had destroyed their precious blood pact, brought to him from its rightful owner by Newt and his simple-minded niffler, and brushed the two rust-red droplets long since dry from the interior of the golden vial. He had also brushed aside the anguish that came with it, blinking rapidly as he watched the bright metal lose the last vestiges of its luster, and then his heart had hardened with the knowledge of what he must do next  —  a quest he had just bungled most magnificently. The knowledge that Gellert had won stung him not quite so keenly as the foreboding sense of terror inside, the terror he could only swallow instead of dispel since he did not know what Gellert was planning next. It was not such a disgraceful thing to lose to his old adversary; they had dueled in play many times during that long, sweet summer, and had each won a few times, though their games always ended in a tumble of tangled limbs and flying kisses. He thought he would perish with the pain of it when that summer ended, his heart clawed to shreds at the gaping emptiness in Ariana ’ s dead, dead eyes and the sight of Gellert ’ s tall, straight back turned to him as the love of his life strode out of the ruins of that little house in Godric ’ s Hollow  —  but he was wrong. He had survived those hellish moments, and now would face much worse.

The thought almost sent him tumbling to his knees, and he would have certainly collapsed from the mixture of sheer exhaustion and crushing defeat had not the tall wizard at his side gripped his arm tightly and let him lean his weight against his side. He glanced up at the unfamiliar face of the Acolyte  —  not British, and not one of his students  —  and murmured a word of gratitude. To his left, Abernathy shot him a look of concern. They paused in one of the sumptuous rooms (no doubt one of Gellert ’ s temporary hideouts), and the former MACUSA official reached for a silver comb that stood on a side table, tapped it once with his wand, and handed him the object once its silvery-blue glow had faded. _ A Portkey, then _ ? They must mean to take him somewhere, to a place where his friends would not be able to reach him. He did not have much time to muse on that, however, and the world compressed as the Portkey whisked him into the unknown. The firm grip of his guards on his arm did not relax until his sight steadied, and he saw that they were standing in a well-furnished bedroom with a high four-poster in one corner. He barely had time to register any of it before he was pushed into an armchair, and the row of neat buttons holding together his vest was undone with deft fingers. He struggled slightly, without knowing what he did, and a strong pair of hands immediately held him down as his movements subsided. The same fingers probed gently at his wounds, and a wand came out of its holster as the Acolyte began to dress the numerous cuts and bruises still oozing blood that stained the pristine linen of his shirt. There was a particularly nasty wound on his right arm that required special attention, and once the worst had been dealt with and his head was no longer spinning from feverish pain, he could see that the room they were in wanted nothing by way of comforts and yet was layered with so many enchantments that he would probably never get out of there alive if he was locked in by himself. Two doors were connected to it, one that presumably led to the other areas of his quarters and the other the one he would have to go through should he wish to leave, though the two wizards tending to him obviously had no intentions of letting him do so.

They stepped back once they were done, away from him and with their eyes full of wariness, and did a cursory examination of the security spells holding him in place. Then they turned to leave, and Abernathy waved his wand on his way out to conjure a glass jug of water that spun in midair before settling on a silver tray to his side on his way out, complete with cups and a saucer. The door closed behind them, and the lock clicked into place  —  so he was correct in one of his assumptions, at least. He was too weary, too  _ distraught _ to consider taking a drink, though his throat burned with strain and his store of magic was severely depleted. The duel had not been easy on him, though he was the one to lose it, and his sore body screamed to him for rest and for sustenance.

The physical anguish was not half enough to drown out the pain of his mental suffering, however, and he remained in his seated position for a while, staring into the soft yellow light of the lamp on the table before him, eyes burning with a swirl of emotions that bordered on frenzied madness. He was a songbird locked in a pretty cage, and someone had clipped off his wings. He writhed inside with the despair of that knowledge, though he was in full control of his body on the outside, and years of patience had taught him never to show his despondency, no matter how unkind life was. He felt for the wards coating his room, and realized why so many of them had seemed familiar  —  Gellert must have cast these himself, heaping on the enchantments that would keep him within the close confines of this cell, so that even in defeat Albus would be rendered harmless to the cause the dark wizard was working for. It was really rather unnecessary  —  he was not capable of magic too complex without his wand, and no outside help would come to him easily. The Ministries had never fully trusted him, and they must be fawning over their new master by now, too preoccupied to spare Grindelwald ’ s newly-made captive a single thought; his friends did not know where he was, and could do nothing to outwardly oppose the new regime while bereft of their leader. He only hoped that Minerva and Newt knew better than to go searching for him.

He did not know how long he sat there in his contemplations; it could have been a whole hour, or else barely a minute, but the waves of exhaustion washed over him and he felt as light and precarious as a skiff upon the ocean without an anchor to tether him to shore. The gnarled mess of emotions within him burned with urgency, but he had no way of sorting them out. Rising at last to stagger to the four-poster, he collapsed on top of the covers and fell into a deep slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Albus sees Gellert again... properly, for the first time in forty-six years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just wanted to say thank you for all the kind comments, and my apologies for not being able to reply — I have a ton of work on hand, and the new term starts in just four days, and so I am all sorts of freaked out. But meanwhile, here’s the third chapter, which hopefully won’t bore you!

He awoke in the manner of a young fawn startled in its repose, and for a moment could not remember where he was. He sat up, shaking his head slightly to dispel the disorientation clouding his eyes, and as he took in the room around him his memories came rushing back, and he almost collapsed back into the pile of fluffy pillows supporting him from behind. 

The second thing he noted was that he was lying  in bed, beneath the warm covers and not on top of them as he had originally been. His blood-soaked shirt had been removed, and he was instead clad in a loose robe of pale silk, though under it he had been stripped bare and the smooth fabric was pleasant against his hot skin. A few of his wounds still smarted when his movements tugged on them, but they were half-healed by now and would not trouble him very much. He lifted off the coverlet from his slender body and saw that his clothes had been cleaned and dried while he was asleep, with his suit lying neatly folded at the foot of the bed. There were still some remnants of fever clinging to him, however, and he did not seem strong enough to reach them, much less dress himself. The wide opening at the front of his shirt slid back to reveal unblemished skin that was milky pale as he leaned forward to hook his fingers in them, and the wealth of his long red hair tumbled down in a silky waterfall of dusky colors. He had purposefully kept his hair lengthy, for it helped to shield his face from sight whenever he bowed his head in contemplation, and served to befuddle the interrogators from the British Ministry whenever they hauled him in for questioning, a pastime they seemed to grow increasingly fond of as the war in the Muggle world raged on and Grindelwald ’ s influence grew at exponential rates.

He lifted his head at the click of the lock on the door, and his muscles tensed as it swung aside to reveal the tall figure of Grindelwald himself, accompanied by a dark-haired woman with piercing green eyes and an alabaster complexion. She was dressed in an elegant forest-green outfit, and carried herself with the arrogant and disdainful air of a typical pure-blood aristocrat. He recognized her, of course  —  Vinda Rosier, second in command of the Alliance and Grindelwald ’ s right hand. Her condescending demeanor was somewhat blunted at this moment, however, shadowed as she was by her master and careful to remain two steps behind him.

With great difficulty Albus wrenched his eyes away and directed his gaze onto the Dark Lord, who was now gesturing to Vinda to wait outside the room. She bowed, her sharp eyes darting between the two men within, and complied by retreating into the shaded reclusion of the corridor outside. Grindelwald ’ s lips quivered slightly, as though amused by her hesitance, and closed the door shut as the lock once more fell into place and the world was shut out for the time being.

Then it was just the two of them, staring at each other over the entire length of the room, and with no other witness except the deathly quiet.

Albus was acutely aware of his lack of decent attire, and he could freely admit that he has seldom felt so terribly vulnerable. He had never been Gellert ’ s match physically, preferring even in his youth to spend most of his time indoors with the tip of his nose buried in a book, and it seemed as though the duel had proven that he was the lesser of the two when it comes to prowess in magic as well. It was one of the reasons why he had been so reluctant to fight Gellert in the first place  —  he could not be certain of who would get the upper hand should it come to tooth against nail, though he had gradually blocked out the possibility of his defeat after a while. It was the most convenient reason to hand to anyone who demanded that he challenge the Dark wizard, though it was far from the most convincing excuse he made for himself while postponing the final confrontation. It had been a far more personal thing that plagued him than the possibility of potential defeat, and made him recoil from the blood pact when it was first brought to him from Paris.

_ And see the bitter wine I have brewed for myself _ _._ His thoughts were laced with derision for his own folly.

He gritted his teeth and sat perfectly still as Grindelwald approached, his eyes trained firmly upon the Austrian. It was not the baleful glare of a tormented prisoner, but his usual look of gentle kindness and easy grace. The Austrian ’ s mismatched eyes were fixed upon his, and he could not afford to be the first to break eye contact  —  to lower his gaze would be nothing less than servile submission, and he was not quite ready for that before losing the first round of the verbal sparring that is sure to follow. The Dark Lord settled his weight on the edge of the bed not three feet from him, and he felt the slight indention in the mattress as it sank to accommodate his visitor.

It was Gellert who broke the silence.  “ Comfortable? ”  He asked, his voice as light as the summer breeze when it is laden with the scent of pine cones. Albus had to swallow at that. It had been so long since they last had a conversation in solitude, and though the intonations were as familiar to him as the memory of their days together, the situation was wholly different, and completely beyond his control. 

“ Yes, ”  he replied, as though they were engaged in friendly banter over tea and scones in Bathilda ’ s house, and not conversing as captive and lord.  “ Your henchmen were very courteous  —  didn ’ t even mock me after I was led away. ”

“ As if they would dare. ”  Again that tiny quirk of the lips, and amusement glimmered in Gellert ’ s eyes, as they always did whenever Albus made a witty retort or a scathing comment during their two months of insanity. He did not know how to reply to that without showing any hint of weakness or nostalgia, and so he kept silent, lowering his eyes to gaze emptily at the embroidered bedspread with its splashes of luxuriant colors. Hearing that voice alone was enough to throw him off balance, and as the myriad of remembrances tumbled forth from the crevices where he had hidden them, he wished suddenly to be anyone but Albus Dumbledore, and anywhere but here, faced with his old... was it friend? Lover? Nemesis? Or archenemy? No word could suffice to describe the complexity of their present relationship, and the tangled strings connecting them were beyond either description or definition.

A glass was pressed into his hands, and he looked up to see Gellert enclosing the cup in their joined palms to raise it up to his parched lips. He drank mechanically, too much confused by the sudden show of solicitude to protest, and the rawness coating his throat eased a little as moisture found its way down his esophagus. Gellert ’ s hands were larger than his, dotted with a few thin calluses that must have been the result of fingering his wand too much. A wand to a wizard of European descent was as vital as the air he breathed and the sustenance he drew, though Albus had never been able to grow a callus, no more than he could manage a proper beard at age eighteen. 

He pushed at the glass once his thirst had been sated, and Gellert took it from him gently, letting the cup float back to its decanter on the table. He had scarcely time enough to wipe away the moistness with the back of one hand when Gellert was upon him, pushing him back against the pillows as his mouth latched onto Albus ’  and was taking what the professor would not give him. Slender hands and delicate fingers writhed beneath his grip, and there was a shuddering gasp of pain as the half-healed wounds reopened, but he had no room for any thought except that sweet mouth parting to accept his probing tongue, and when he pulled away at last it was to see Albus ’  face, starkly white as it lay surrounded by a halo of wine-red waves, the rich tones of his hair offsetting the paleness of his visage and the fury in his dampened eyes in a startling manner. The crimson gash on his right arm was gaping again, so he kept one hand firmly on the man lying prostrate upon the bed while he traced the outline of the wound with his wand clutched in the other, and the frantic panting of the captive eased as the healing magic sank in.

Albus let out one last harsh exhalation as he forcibly composed himself.  _One kiss_ , and he had been wholly undone, and for once he was glad of the thick comforter that still lay snugly over the lower half of his body, for it concealed the subtle changes of his physique as it reawakened after starving for attention for four decades. He had abstained from desires of the flesh, having learned to his grief that he was not the sort to love without inducing grief, but  _ one kiss _ , and he was undone. The flare of desire that had reared its head as Gellert ’ s mouth latched onto his terrified him, and the stinging sensation within his eyes were not caused by fury alone. 

He shifted his body slightly, away from the Dark Lord gazing down at him with hooded eyes, a delicate retreat rendered useless when the latter moved along with him, pressing closer still, their breath almost mingled in the rising heat of the room. When he opened his mouth again his voice was perfectly steady, and it was not without a certain coolness that he inclined his head in the direction of the other wizard,  “ Mr. Grindelwald. What do you want? ”

Score . The Dark Wizard frowned slightly at the distant inflection, and a trace of annoyance flitted over his well-sculpted features, but he regained his stance quickly, and smiled as he raised Albus ’  right hand to his lips, his breath teasing the soft skin as he murmured,  “ Why, Mr. Dumbledore  —  to talk, of course. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter, done. Updates will be HIGHLY irregular from now on, with the beginning of school and whatnot, but I won’t abandon this, whatever may come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short talk happens, for reasons that will be explained later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m having a hell of a time, what with SAT prep class and moving and whatnot, so it’s nice to Sit down for a minute...

A beat.  “ I had not known there was anything left between us to say. ”  Albus would have retreated still further if it had been humanly possible, but with his back pressed against the bedstead, it was hard to shrink away without melting entirely into the wall.

“ Oh, but there is,  _ Liebling . _ ”  Unlike him, Grindelwald had not lost an ounce of that damned composure he was so well reputed for  —  that bloodless stare and those glowing, mismatched eyes lent him a terrifying aura of power, though it was muted presently, and in his long coat and sleek leathers the Dark Lord looked almost indecently at ease, and his demeanor itself was calm, if not gentle enough. Once again Albus was reminded painfully of his scanty clothes, and he wondered if Gellert had intentionally dressed him thus, to add insult to injury and humiliation to his torment. The professor had never been the sort to be subjugated easily, and there was an unsavory taste to yielding in such a vulnerable manner to his old adversary. As though he had perceived Albus ’  discomfiture, Grindelwald ’ s eyes glittered and he dropped the hand he was holding to gather up the silken sheets around the slim body of the man on the bed, so that a large portion of exposed skin was suitably concealed.

“ To begin with, ”  he continued, as if nothing had transpired between that and his previous words.  “ _ What should I do with you? _ ”  He leaned in, intruding upon the last few inches of space Albus had employed as a potential barrier, so close that his breath drew quivers from the auburn eyelashes that lay fluttering on the cheek of his former friend. Even in defeat, the wizard was a liability. They knew each other too well to be ever deluded by mere appearances, and the habitual obeisance the professor had assumed since he had entered the room was only a facade, and not a very good one at that. He had lost  —  that was undeniable, and the rapid changes in government policies he had implemented right after the duel had served to augment their now unequal positions, but the red-haired beauty in front of him possessed both wit and tenacity, and seldom changed his mind once it was made up. He would continue to resist the Greater Good until the last vestiges of his strength was spent, and Gellert knew better than to try on him his gifts of persuasion. Albus was, after all, the creator of the basis for his most convincing rhetorics, and the brilliancy of his mind would not bend easily to an outside influence when said influence was set so firmly against his supposed morality. He was too kind, too empathetic, too  _ Albus  _ to ever condone the proportion of violence Gellert advocated in order to achieve the necessary ends.

He was a problem, in short, and Gellert was not quite certain that he could solve it.

“ Must you do something with me? ”  The professor had finally raised his eyes, and his tone remained light and conversational, as though it was not his fate that was being called into discussion at this moment, but rather an interesting paper he had just written on how to transfigure intangible matter.  “ I think you already know well enough what you wish to do with me. ” 

He did know what he  _ wished _ to do. Wandless and friendless, Albus could be contained easily enough at Nurmengard, confined to the set of rooms that had been prepared especially for him, where Gellert could have quick access to him should he ever crave the warmth of his soft body. He would be well-cared for, and in time, perhaps, Gellert would be able to amend their shattered relationship and dispel the fear and revulsion the professor had felt in his presence. He was sure that those adverse emotions were simply the jarring after-effects of losing a three-hour duel, and Albus would heal quickly once he was done processing the brutality of that fight. The professor was conquered, but still resilient  —  therein lay the greatest impediment to his attempts to mend their broken love. He would continue to defy Gellert ’ s ideals, and his little friends would no doubt be eager to help him escape from the prison he had been interred in. That pestilential zoo-keeper Newt Scamander and his wife the American Auror had already vanished, their disappearance reported to him by his Acolytes mere minutes after Albus was led away. They were probably off on some mischief, and seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth for the time being.

But no matter. Gellert would find them. There was no safe-house for them to retreat to, no crevice where they may cower in that he would not find them, and when he did he would pay them back for all the annoyances they had caused him over the last few years. Scamander in particular had to pay  —  for stealing both the blood pact and Albus ’  affection.

Some of that vicious anger must have shown on his face, for Albus recoiled before him, sinking deeper into the pile of cushions as Gellert recomposed his features, though his eyes held no hint of fear or trepidation, and he continued to stare defiantly up at the Dark wizard looming over him. Grindelwald blinked slightly, and wound his long fingers about the undulating loops of dark red hair that lay curling like skeins of silk on the shoulders of the professor. He could smell the soothing fragrance of those long tresses, and it calmed his boiling rage to a manageable simmer.

“ I do know, ”  he agreed quietly,  “ but I do not think that you will like it very much. ”  He trusted no hands other than his own to provide proper care for the pale man in front of him, and if Albus must suffer at first as he adjusts to life in captivity, then so be it. He could not bear to see those brilliant blue eyes dimmed in the misery and squalor of a cell in Azkaban, as the British Minister had suggested (he had nearly strangled Spencer-Moon for even voicing the idea of sending Albus to that accursed fortress should the  “ audacious schoolteacher ”  prove to be too troublesome), and Albus would be far easier to control in confinement while in close proximity to the sole wizard who can enforce his obedience without resorting to overly harsh means to subdue him.

“ If that ’ s what pleases you. ”  The object of his contemplation seemed suddenly exhausted beyond measure, and sank back into the mattress.  “ It ’ s not as though I have any say in this matter, is it? ”

“ No, ”  Gellert agreed smoothly,  “ I ’ m afraid you do not. ”  Abruptly he arose and turned to leave, without a single backward glance as he strode through the doorway, to incline his head to Vinda Rosier, who followed him eagerly as he departed. The door closed behind him, and Albus was once again left in solitude, half-baffled by the sudden end to their conversation. He thought he had glimpsed a sliver of inexplicable resentment in Grindelwald ’ s eyes, though he did not understand the cause for that displeasure. He had enacted the part of submission to the best of his abilities, and he had no more room to yield even if Gellert was still dissatisfied with his victory. He buried his face in the pillow, hoping to fall back into sleep.

Ah, but sleep was elusive, no matter how much his body still needed it. An intense bitterness traced its way down his throat, as potent as the taste of wormwood when it flows through the dusty veins of a dead tree, and he was once more acutely aware of the reawakened desire tightening its grip on him. He had not remained in abstinence for forty years without expecting some sort of repercussion once the dam was breached, but the results were more merciless than he had dared to imagine. It was that kiss, that harshness as Gellert ’ s lips rubbed against his and laid him open to the possibilities that both ravishment and defeat pointed to, a purely sensual suggestion invading his mind as a spark of that old longing sprang into being. Was Gellert simply trying to insult him? Had there been some deeper meaning to this unexpected attack? He had long since given up any speculation as to whether Grindelwald was still capable of tenderness or not  —  all the care he had shown Credence Barebone was, after all, a well-fabricated lie, one that ensnared the hapless boy and exploited him for all he was worth. He had no trust left for Grindelwald to speak of, and the unease that accompanied him as he sank once more into a restive sleep finally relented as he slid into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Honestly, I’m bad at this... there is this story I WANT to tell, and then there is this story I’m telling — ugh. There are a few lovely lengthy works of this caliber in other languages (go read Qurainbow’s pieces if you can!), but putting my own spin on this... ugh. Language is such a horrid barrier, but the gifted Verivala has a work called Liminality that is amazingly well-done, and for her language is NOT a barrier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to heat up... Quite slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate my life... but here’s the next chapter! And yes, ratings might be up soon.

It was near evening when he awoke again. His head no longer spun, though it still felt rather heavy, and his lips were once again parched with thirst. 

He slowly hoisted himself up, and saw that the pile of clothes that lay at the foot of the bed had been replaced by new ones that were certainly not his own. As his form shifted the wide collar of the silk shirt he had been dressed in slid open, baring his skin to the fading light of the dusky sunset, he was once again forcibly reminded of the vulnerability of his current position. Too anxious to quibble any longer, he quickly donned the close-fitting apparel that had been laid out for him, realizing only afterwards how smoothly the fabric clung to his every curve. The cut was that of a fashionable three-piece, much like the ones he preferred to wear while teaching, and the color was a warm and inviting shade.

Having buttoned the vest up to his chin (he still felt somewhat violated at the memory of that Acolyte undoing all the buttons of his old suit, even though it was only for the purpose of seeing to his wounds), he slipped to the floor and padded quietly to the tall window located at the other end of the room. The stained glass covering it had been sliced into several portions, and from his vantage point he could look through a clear pane to see the cavernous valley right beneath. His room was situated at an impressive height, before him stretched nothing but an endless array of snow-capped mountains.  _ Nurmengard . Of course _ _._ He had been too upset and distraught, too feverish and agonized to apply any logic to the question of his whereabouts when he was first brought here, yet there was no other place for him to be, no prison Gellert would deem strong enough to hold him while the dust has yet to settle in the aftermath of their duel. Knowing the British Ministry and their intense dislike of him, he supposed that he ought to be glad that he had not woken up in a damp Azkaban cell, with sprays of sea-foam dashing against the tiny openings on the grayish walls that served as windows. He remembered what it looked like, having visited that grim fortress before back when his father was still alive, and still possessed sense enough to recognize his wife and children.

Albus sighed lightly. He was not exactly fond of reminisce, for in him was distilled too much grief and sorrow, and he had not tasted love since the end of that fateful summer so very long ago. It was in his nature to love, to be gentle and affectionate, but he had learned the hard way that his love often wrought nothing but death and destruction, and so limited himself to an ever-tightening circle of openminded people he could call  _ friends _ . They were at best diversions from the intense loneliness that robbed him of his rest at night, and at worse the questionable fancies of his hungry soul starving for companionship. Solitude was something he was used to, though he had long since accepted it in distaste and knew that it was foolish extravagance to hope for anything more.

He suddenly realized that he had not eaten for over a day. Ignoring the door that was tightly locked to prevent his escape, he turned the knob of the other one and entered a cozy little living-room, with a small fire crackling merrily in the hearth and a table laden with a dinner tray. A shelf stuffed full of books sat primly on the mantelpiece, and there were rolls of new parchment piled neatly on the writing-desk in one corner. There was a cunning gold inkstand with a copper quill standing in it, and a glass jar filled with sherbet lemons proudly displayed its contents in the most conspicuous spot. The place was done in varying shades of warm reds and light gold, much like the Gryffindor common-room in Hogwarts, and he felt ridiculously grateful to Gellert for that small kindness, which made the crushing weight inside him slightly easier to endure. 

He ate quickly, though sparingly, and was careful not to touch anything too rich or heavy. He did not feel that his tender stomach could contend with any more queasiness, and so he took only a few bites of the sponge cake topped with luscious cream, and silently prayed that he would be able to keep it down. He had not been able to consume anything right before the duel, though Minerva had tried to press upon him some biscuits from the box sitting on her desk, protesting that he needed his strength, though now that the results are carven into rock he did not have much of an appetite either. Meanwhile, the sun had dipped below the mountaintops, and the first stars were starting to glimmer in the rapidly-darkening sky. It must have been bitterly cold outside, even though it was late spring, and the rosy-shaded lamps began to light themselves as the sky above melted into a shade of purplish bruises. Albus loitered for a while after finishing his meal, sounding out the wards layered around him  —  he wanted to see what sort of caretakers that were now in charge of him, and he waited just long enough to see the pointy-eared house-elf whisk away the remains of his dinner before picking a book at random and retreating to his room. 

He attempted to clear his mind and focus on nothing except for the book before him. The turmoil within his mind had been tempered slightly by the comforts of a hot meal and a stretch of soothing silence, but his nerves still jangled, and the security spells holding him prisoner lay oppressively on his spirits. He had to hand it to Gellert  —  the man knew his wards, and how best to set them so that a captive could be held firmly in the palm of his jailor ’ s hand without inducing too much discomfort. There was not a single crack to be found, though he had canvassed the entire length of his quarters, and he had no doubt that Grindelwald would implement more punitive measures should he try to escape this early in his captive stage.

Albus concentrated within while directing his gaze onto a particular page. He dove deep into his own consciousness, and assessed the internal damage he had sustained. There were no serious injuries remaining, for the worst of them had already been treated, but he was both physically and emotionally exhausted, his store of magic depleted to a dangerous level. He wondered how Gellert had recovered so quickly from the aftermath of their duel, when he himself had slept for an entire day and still felt terribly weak and drained.  _ But of course, Gellert has the Elder Wand _ _._ He remembered the curiously-shaped length of wood the other had drawn out of his sleeve as they bowed to one another, and once again tasted the trepidation clogging his throat as he recognized the artifact  —  one of the Hallows, a gift to the eldest brother from none other than Death himself. 

_ So the rumors were proven true _ . He almost started mocking himself at that, though with the two of them facing each other in a square under the watchful gaze of hundreds of spectators, all of them to some degree both breathless and expectant, there had been no time for him to process that information, no room to digest the implications that such a powerful wand would bring.  _ The Elder Wand. The Deathstick. _ More than enough power to level the playing field, even he had always believed himself to be the slightly more skillful of the two.  _ Which goes to show just how wrong I was . _

Suddenly he could no longer bear that thought. Flinging the book aside, he rushed to the washstand to splash water on his burning skin. The notion of defeat was well-nigh impossible to accept, but there was nothing for him to do but to accept it, laid bare beneath the light as he was with no castle wall to hide behind this time. Guilt rained down and stained him red, and he had to take several deep, ragged breaths before he could regain control of his own trembling body. Ashamed of his unseemly outburst, he quickly turned off the tap and undressed before stepping into the bath, letting the hot water soak the weariness from his bones. 

Drying himself on a large towel, he stared into his reflection, tinted pale gold by the cheerful light of the bathroom, and the pallid face with its familiar, delicate features looked back at him with well-hidden despair. He pulled a fresh nightshirt over his head, and apologized to the book as he picked it up off the carpet. He was still alone when he retreated into the depths of the featherbed, and as the lamps dimmed the words on the page began to blur as well. The silence lulled his frenzy, and Albus soon drifted off, almost soothed by the consistent warmth and quiet.

He did, however, awake when he felt a pair of strong arms enclose him from behind, and he opened his eyes in time to meet the mismatched gaze of the larger man stretching out on the bed beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be patient with me... I’m still struggling with language as it is, and I have ZERO experience with long pieces.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened that night. What didn’t happen. And everything in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, though I have ZERO experience with anything related to it. Things should be picking up pace soon enough.

Albus tensed, his body suddenly rigid. He could sense (rather than feel) the steady thrum of the heartbeat coming from behind him, but his own heart was pounding away like the feet of a bouncing rabbit trying to escape its predators. Those mismatched eyes glowed ominously in the dark, one silver like the light of the moon and the other as black as the firmament on a starless night, and his breath hitched ever so slightly. _ What does he want? _

If he had enough daring to fathom this situation  —  and Albus rarely had enough daring to do much of anything when it came to Grindelwald  —  he could have freely admitted to himself that he knew that this was coming. The abrupt ending to their disparate conversation earlier that day had sown the seeds for this mess, and it was with a certain trepidation that he finally met the eyes of the Dark Wizard holding him, gently stroking the dusky waves of his hair back from his burning forehead. He had to bite down hard on his lower lip to stifle the little sound of beleaguered misery as the image of what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised once again rose to the front of his mind.  _ I still want him. _

He shifted away to one side, suddenly recalling the flare of desire that had arisen with that one kiss. Abstinence had made its mark on him, and he was frightened of how he would react should Gellert wish to take advantage. He had lost, after all, and it was up to the victor to decide what the victim was best appropriated for. If he had enough bravery to confess it, he would have accepted the wanting inside, the deep hollow ache that had worsened with each passing day after their disastrous fallout and was only recently beginning to be assuaged, with the sparse moments spent in Gellert ’ s proximity. He wanted to push the man away, to shove those well-built arms off of him, to turn his head so that those damned fingers would stop smoothing his skin, but he couldn ’ t. Both physically and otherwise.

It was only to be expected.

Then Gellert ’ s voice broke the silence.  “ Shall we go on from here? ”  Albus stiffened at the enquiry, and he was opening his mouth in confusion when a pair of lips came and settled on his, a continuation of the harsh kiss from their previous encounter, and his breath left him as a foreign tongue that he knew as well as his own invaded the silken space behind his teeth, once again exploring the hidden recesses of what he could not freely give. It was not the tender, fumbling probings of their younger days, when both could laugh off the awkwardness chalked down to inexperience and were content with the satiation of youthful lust. Here was not familiar territory  —  here was no man ’ s land, and here a kiss could be almost punishing, a show of both love and resentment. He had no more room for consternation, just as Gellert had no more patience for what he considered as a betrayal of their oaths to be faithful to one another, and for Albus it had all cumulated in the inconvenience of his defeat.

He finally managed to break away, gasping for air, and stared up at the source of all his anguish and despair. He still loved, but his love was a poisoned affair, and Gellert could only exacerbate the effects of that poison with his own venomous passion.  _ Could I have said no? _ As if reading his mind, the voice of the other continued, voice rough with desire barely contained,  “ Tell me to stop  —  and I will. ”

Too late . Desire was awake, and it saturated the room, soaking into the sheets of the large bed they both lay upon. By the dim, wavering light of the stars outside, he could see that Gellert was wholly naked, the paleness of his skin almost ivory-like in the sheltered darkness. He was well-muscled all over, his form strong and imposing even without the stately ornaments he wore to accompany his militaristic outfit, and Albus thought he could feel the hardness of his desire stiffening against the layer of blankets covering the bed. His own body seemed slight in comparison and nowhere near as impressive. 

_ Say no and refuse him. Say no and sleep in peace . _

“ Don ’ t stop. ”  His voice sounded soft and shaky in the rising warmth, though he had not meant for it to come out that way. He had not meant for it to come out at all, and when it did he turned his face to the wall, away from the hands now tracing the slim contours of his narrow waist and dipping still lower to reach for that hidden area between his legs. He could hear Gellert ’ s almost soundless laugh in his ear at this show of contrary petulance, and he pressed his lips together as the Dark Wizard rolled the two of them into a more fitting position, with Albus lying beneath him, cushioned by the soft blankets.

He bit his lips still harder as deft fingers unhooked his nightshirt and the remainder of the fabric was ripped off in the other ’ s blatant eagerness, and he briefly wondered just how many Gellert had bedded during the years of their separation. He himself had had no other partner, but there was no way of knowing if Gellert had chosen to give in to the pleasures of a single night. Then a finger slick with lubrication found its way into him, and all thoughts and speculations were driven from his mind as he buckled and gasped on the bed, twisting helplessly as it found that one spot, so sweet and secretive inside. For a moment he could not choke off the pitiful moans emanating from the depths of his throat, and shame and guilt almost overcame him, but then Gellert added another finger and he was nothing except for the writhing pleasure inside, the deep panic of their separation within him finally starting to abate as the those fingers worked him with tenderness and dexterity. It was too much and yet still not enough, and his hands pushed blindly at the man on top of him as he whimpered for  _ more more more _ _._ Gellert caught both of his wrists almost immediately, and pinned them above his head to the bedstead, cutting short his struggles with another kiss that had him sinking even deeper into the featherbed, while with his free hand the Dark Lord parted the slender legs of his prey and withdrew his marauding fingers. He was ready, as ready as he ever would be, with his manhood thick and heavy and hard as steel, and he felt as though he could not bear one more moment of suspense as he lined up to Albus ’  slick opening, rendered pliant and welcoming. 

Albus ’  eyes snapped open as he came, and his cry of ecstasy was mingled with slight fear as he felt Gellert ’ s desire prodding at his entrance. He almost shoved at the wizard on top of him, terrified by the sudden realization that he had forgotten what a liaison of this sort would entail  —  he was not supposed to take without giving something in return, not supposed to derive pleasure without letting the other do with him as he would.  _ Stop. _ He tried half-heartedly to claw at the restraints pinning his wrists above his head, but the impending consequences of his capitulation was no match for the roving desire still raging within him, strengthened by his first high. He knew he would regret this, come morning, but he had no thought to spare for that now  —  it was this moment that mattered, not the grief and guilt that would overwhelm him when he opened his eyes again to the light of day, and he tossed aside his nagging doubts though he knew perfectly well that it would soon come back to bite him. That was for the morning, and here he was tonight.

As if sensing his inner discourse, Gellert nuzzled the delicate skin of his neck right above his jugular, and pushed inside in one smooth motion. Albus screamed at the sudden invasion, at the rush of burning pain assailing him as he was filled by the length of Grindelwald ’ s desire. He was too big,  too much and Albus ’  slick passage could not fully accommodate him at first, with his long abstinence rendering him tighter than he was on the day when they first met, and he writhed and began struggling for real to escape the burning sensation between his legs.

But he was still weak, and his efforts almost child ’ s play. Grindelwald stopped his invasion momentarily to soothe the suffering of the man twisting under him, trailing light kisses up the line of his neck to whisper encouragements in German in his ear, and slowly the spasms stopped as Albus regained control of his body. He waited until the ragged breath of the other had almost evened before he once again began to thrust, and this time it was cries of pleasure that he wrung out, not gasps of pain. The heat went on building steadily in his groin as he slid in and out of that blessed tightness, joining the two of them together into one as they were always meant to be, and he bit at the tender flesh of the exposed neck beneath as his pulse quickened and his body neared release.

Albus rocked to the rhythm of the hips snapping against his. His form still trembled slightly as he took in the hard length of the other ’ s passion, but the worst of the pain had faded, and the friction sent delicious shivers up his spine as Gellert took him, carrying him over the edge. He knew the exact moment when Gellert came, and he flung his head back, moaning softly as his passage spasmed and milked, hot seed trickling inside him as he felt himself repositioned on the bed. He slipped off into blissful unconsciousness, exhausted beyond measure, and did not stir as Gellert ’ s arms wrapped around him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I’m miserable. Progress is painfully slow at this point, what with twelve hours of SAT class per day and the piles and piles of work they like to shove at me. Pray excuse any hiatus.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus wakes up, in time for the plot to begin to thicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, apologies for not being able to update regularly from now on. School starts in a few days, and I’ll be hard pressed to write anything that isn’t an essay. I’ve also been drained by the original works I’ve been writing to help with my college application, so perhaps it is time for me to give myself a bit of room to breathe before the new term begins. I’ll die before abandoning this story, and updates should continue once the winter holidays start.

He jerked awake all of a sudden, and the first thing that invaded his eyes was the faint grayish light of early dawn that colored the morning an unsavory shade of old porridge. The snow-capped mountains still stood resolutely outside his window, and the room would have been freezing cold if not for the small, smokeless fire crackling doggedly in its hearth.

The second thing he noted was the pair of familiar arms wrapped about his waist. It was a jarring thing to finally notice, and when he did all the memories of last night ’ s encounter came rushing back to him, almost bowling him over in its relentless ferocity.

He wanted to bury his face in his hands.  _ What had he done? _ He knew well enough the answer to that; he had given in, was all, given in the desires that had hounded him for almost half a century, and given Grindelwald valid proof of his astral defeat as well as his physical one. He had yielded  —  _ but was there anything so shameful as yielding? _ —  and the dull, gnawing pain in his backside added weight to the heaviness within his chest. He could hide his face with both arms pinioned to his sides, and so he squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again to examine the man still sleeping peacefully beside him.

The years had been kind to his former lover. It had been kind to both of them, but while worry and regret had distilled a hidden sadness into the pristine azure of his eyes, Gellert had gained only gravity and grace. His sculpted features seemed stronger, less tenuous, and Albus remembered the implacable determination in his eyes as he regarded the crowd of onlookers, assessing them, judging them, peeling back the layers of their skin to tell their brand of worthiness within, as he had peeled back all of Albus ’  defenses last night. What did he see when he looked at these crowds? Cowards? Subjects? Potential allies? Or did he only see what sort of good they may do him, and disregarded the rest? He wasn ’ t sure if he knew, and he wasn ’ t sure if he wished to know. There had been a time when he thought he knew, but that vision had shattered along with his entire world that rain-soaked night in Godric ’ s Hollow, and he only thought he knew what was pain when it did, leaving him with both palms full of shards that stung.

He studied the proud features of the other, rendered arrogantly self-contained even in slumber, and wished that he could reach out to trace those elegant contours with the tips of his fingers, the way they did back when things between them were simpler and not yet broken. Now he did not dare, and his hand paused in midair as it involuntarily reached toward the object of its longing, the slender digits trembling slightly as he finally withdrew his touch. What was he to Gellert? That was the question plaguing him, burning his insides and scorching the most vital parts of his entrails, and the worst (albeit most interesting) thing was that perhaps he did know. The word hovered somewhere in between love and hate, derision and admiration, and the medley of indiscernible guilt mixing with relief and distrust finally gave him pause. For a moment  —  one wild, brutal moment  —  he succumbed to the frenzy of confusion within, and the urge to lash out, to hurt the man before him, drove all sense or reason from his splintered mind. He wanted to inflict pain,  _needed_ to , for  _ anything _ was potentially better than this  —  this  _ rancor _ mixed with  _ want _ _._ His fingers itched to wrap themselves about the other ’ s throat, and for a fraction of a second, he thought he understood how Gellert had felt, that night in Paris when the blood pact was first stolen from him.

That feeling lasted only a moment, however, and dissipated as suddenly as it had made an entrance, and he was left with the same helpless exhaustion as the kind that had overwhelmed him before, when his entire existence was first upended. He sat up in bed, disentangling himself from Grindelwald ’ s close embrace, and tried to ignore the stab of pain spiking through the most intimate and delicate part of his physique. The randomness of the act woke his companion, and those mismatched eyes opened to reflect the glimmers of early dawn. 

He kept his head buried. He could not bear to look upon the man, or himself. If there had been some vicious poison in the room, he would have made a desperate grab for it, the way a drowning wretch clutches at the fragile reeds that coated the banks of a thunderous river, but since there was nothing fatal within his reach, he remained in that lethargic position, with his head bowed and his eyes trained on nowhere.

Then a hand began to card softly through the long hair flowing down his back, and he flinched slightly at the unexpected contact. It was different from the caresses he had received last night, when Gellert ’ s kisses had a punishing note to them and he had had no control over the situation to speak of. If he leaned into those hands, he could almost imagine that the two of them were back in Bathilda ’ s hayloft, nestled in each other ’ s arms amid the piles of clean yet musty straw, undivided by death or cruel dissent, and the yawning chasm that separated them now was but a vague slit carved into the earth. 

He opened his eyes again, and they were back in a high four-poster bed, located somewhere within the hidden recesses of Alpine mountains, and enemies in everything but name.

His morbid musings drew a bitter curve about his lips, but before they could progress much further, a disruption came in the form of Gellert ’ s breath close to his, as the Austrian whispered  _ Gut Morgen, schwatz  _ into his ear. Their hands met as the Dark Wizard pulled him in for a morning kiss, and though his mind rebelled against it, he found himself sinking into that greeting, so strange to him when he should be the one who knows it best. It was like the sensation of sinking deep into a feathery pool of dandelion fluff still tipped with the gold of their blossoms, and he reveled in its inexplicable comfort even though he knew it would eventually suffocate him.

He blinked. Gellert had released his hold on him, and was now dressing himself rapidly, employing an impressive mixture of dexterity and wandless magic. He turned to the foot of the bed and searched for his own clothes, and was immensely relieved to find it all where he had laid them last night. Neither spoke during this brief interval, but when he glanced up it was to see the silhouette of a tiny house-elf etched against the doorway, wrapped in a trailing tablecloth and balancing a heavily-laden breakfast tray between its spindly fingers. Grindelwald gestured for her to place it in the sitting-room, and she whisked off with remarkable alacrity once that task was accomplished, leaving a squeal of  “ Yes, sir! ”  in her wake.

Albus shot him a bemused look, the abrupt interloper having disappeared too quickly for him to mark the quirk of Gellert ’ s lips at her quick retreat. The wizard turned aside to leave  —

“ Wait, ”  he said, his voice a raspy whisper that startled the arrant stillness,  “ Wait. ”

Grindelwald paused, one hand already placed on the doorknob.  “ Yes,  _ Liebling _ ? ”

And in the spur of the moment, it suddenly occurred to Albus how absurd this must seem, the two of them locked in a mutual agreement not to waste a single word, both languishing in the dread silence because there were too many things they could not say and far too much time to say it in, or maybe they had not had any semblance of time or speech to begin with. A thousand words welled up to the edge of his lips, smothering him under the immense load, and yet he had not the faintest idea of how to begin. 

But one must begin, and one seldom may interject between them  —  they, who once lamented that the days were not long enough for them to convey to each other their affections and ingenuities through the medium of language.

“ My friends... ”  his voice crumbled without meaning to, and he hastily composed himself, fought for what at least might pass for composure in his situation,  “ My friends  —  are they all right? ”

He searched Gellert ’ s face with scorching eyes, his gaze steady in spite of the slight tremor in his low tone, which he could not yet suppress.

“ Of course. ”  A flicker of displeasure passed over Gellert ’ s features, but it was gone before he could do anything other than to discern it,  “ I have touched no one during your absence. You may rest easy on that. ”

Albus sighed in relief, a tiny exhale of warm air through lips almost pressed into a line. Grindelwald would not lie to him, now that he had nothing more to lose  —  one lies only to the guileless and unshaken, and he was neither in these regards. It was the unspoken question that he cared to have a definite answer to:  _ And will I ever see them again? _

The smooth inscrutability of Gellert ’ s face did not change as he stepped through the doorway, but he did take the the space of a heartbeat to deposit a small handful of something on the side-table. He then straightened, and the smile he directed at Albus was more of a smirk than anything else:  “ And before you ask to see them... have a look at this, if you will. ”

And he was gone, just like that, leaving Albus alone with the object on the table. He almost shrank backwards upon seeing it up close. It was oblong and pointed, and the silver of it had lost its vibrant luster and faded into a dull iron-grey. It was the blood pact, broken and forlorn, split down the middle to reveal two rusty spots of a color that might have once been red. The metal leaves of the vial ’ s container curled upwards to reveal the desolation within, fractured like a light shining through broken glass.  _ And I was the one who broke it . _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow, isn’t it? Yeah. I’m sorry. But since I’m working off the top of my head, the plot is still quite vague... oops!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, with interesting consequences to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It’s lovely to be back, though I’m not really back just yet... I haven’t written a new chapter — this is just stuff I prepared three weeks ago, but then I decided that I didn’t want to sit on it like I’m trying to hatch an egg or something, so here it is! I’ve recently started living on my own again, which isn’t exactly fun (it’s a colossal pain to have to feed myself properly), but my SAT prep classes are mostly done, so I’ll try to find time to write. I don’t feel like waiting any longer... I’m frightened that too long a hiatus will make me forget this story.

His breath hitched, and he had to quickly suppress the tremor that pierced his body like a poisoned arrow and left him breathless, with a crater the size of a grown man ’ s fist right over his heart. In reality he was still seated on the rumpled bed, but for a moment he was fully submerged in the pain, and he berated himself for this unseemly show of weakness. Grindelwald had always known how to take him apart in the simplest way possible  —  had he known just how much anguish Albus had endured when he finally decided to act? His heart had dripped red when the vial ’ s metal casing broke, and the sound of its muffled  _ crack _ had resonated in his ears until his head might burst and a scream bubbled at the edge of his mouth.

He fingered the silvery fragments, prodded at them with one finger before scooping them up to clench tightly in his palm. The jagged edges cut into the tender skin, and he exhaled harshly as he fully embraced the pain, accepting it, welcoming it even, for it served him as a potent reminder he that was still alive, and as long as there was life there would be change and chance. He pressed his fist against the junction between his brows, his hand cold against skin that grew aflame as he struggled to marshal his wits. His friends were alive  —  that was good, and if they were alive then it must be because Grindelwald had not been able to find them, although the idea of being the reason behind their decision to go into hiding added to the heaviness in his chest. Minerva, at least, should be coping well with the sudden changes  —  she was clever, had a clean record with the British Ministry, and would be more than capable of fulfilling his duties as Deputy Headmaster during his... absence. With his mind still a jumbled mess and a painful lack of information regarding the state of the world at present, Hogwarts might prove to be the least of his worries. He was far more concerned about Grindelwald ’ s next steps, and at the same time was rendered annoying aware of his own powerlessness. There was no way for him to reach out to either Newt Scamander or Nicolas Flamel, and at any rate, he did not wish to bring on their heads any more trouble than what they ’ ve already had.

Meanwhile, the sky had grown fully light outside his window, and the sunlight, bursting out from its alcove behind a gold-edged mass of clouds, caressed the back of his head. He found the sudden warmth comforting, though the brightness of it brought him a few moments of vertigo, and it helped to air the doubts crossing his mind with such presumption. He had lost the duel, but he had lost neither his intelligence nor his abilities. A few moments was all he needed to muster enough strength to rise and approach the breakfast tray, with its pot of fragrant tea still steaming hot, and he forced the memory of last night into the back of his mind, where it would keep until he was better prepared to face it. He dropped the broken pieces of the blood pact onto the table before him as he took his seat, a potent reminder of the prices he had paid and of what he had received in return.

———————————

Nurmengard was by no means slow as it awakens to the morning  —  it was, in fact, driven by an operation far quicker and more efficient than that which any Ministry of Magic may boast of. Speed and capability were qualities Vinda had always prided herself upon, but that was not an excuse to forgo the pleasance of a quiet breakfast delivered to her quarters by the faithful and enthusiastic house-elves. She had gotten up a great deal earlier than usual this morning, and was already halfway through the ill-sorted pile of reports strewn across her desk when the timid knock came, announcing the presence of her breakfast and the knee-high creature serving it.

She seated herself at the table, clad in her dressing gown of emerald silk, and frowned as she took a sip of the scalding coffee. Spooning two small cubes of sugar into her cup, she stirred it absentmindedly as she reflected on the pleasing state of current affairs  —  the war in the world of Les Non-Magiques was almost over, Germany had surrendered without a word, and the Wizarding community was in a state of relative calm as the power of the Alliance continued to grow at exponential rates, following the defeat of the greatest threat to their Greater Good. Things were going almost  _ too _ well, Vinda admitted, and nothing seemed half so satisfying to her as the sight of dozens of Ministry Aurors getting dumped into the bowels of the castle. They were the foolish ones, the minority who could not accept reality even as it stares them in the face, and the loss of their liberty was a small price to pay when it is necessary to demonstrate the authority of those who are now in power. 

The fight was not quite finished, of course. Eurasia still smoldered with the fires of death and destruction, the non-magical population was as yet unaware of its magical counterpart, and though the conventional governments had stepped aside for Grindelwald with ungracious glowers, the hardest tasks still lay ahead. In order for true peace to reign absolute, the price paid for it must be of a fitting magnitude. The miserable failure that was the International Statute of Secrecy had proved as much when it was first erected three hundred years ago, for it only served to conceal the problem  —  it piled dirt over the roots of their discord, and was content to confuse  _ peace _ with  _ quiet _ , poisoning itself with a mind-numbing mixture of complacency and imbecility. When was the last time the Wizarding World had undergone complete innovation, plagued as it was with the bigoted and incompetent multitudes who made the weakest among them leaders and died like sheep for their oppressors? Gellert Grindelwald wasn ’ t simply a revolutionary when you come down to the gist of it; their Master was the result of  _ evolution _ , when genius is combined with power to provide a solution, an answer that would serve to cure the illnesses of their world. 

She set aside her spoon, goblin-made and wrought from the finest silver (a woman should never grow lax in granting herself the best she can afford), and was just draining the last few drops of her cup when there came a series of smart raps on her door. Vinda recognized the intruder as Nagel, a fellow Acolyte, and she scowled darkly as she flung the tableware aside to search for more fitting attire. Only when she had finished arranging her glossy black hair into the elegance of her usual style did she call out  “ Enter ” , and greeted him with the typical arrogance of her high breeding.

Nagel ’ s eyes slid over her entire form as he entered. He was no more impervious to her beauty than most other men, coarse and common as they were, and Vinda had taken special care to remain aloof in her disdain. Marriage, to her, was not an appealing idea, and it was only by joining Grindelwald ’ s army that she was able to avoid becoming a brood mare for her pure-blooded (and narrow-minded) family. She was Grindelwald ’ s best lieutenant, and her position afforded her powers that even the most aristocratic of housewives may only dream of, and she had no intention of relinquishing them anytime soon.

“ He requires your presence. ”  Nagel ’ s low voice interrupted her train of thoughts,  “ And it seems to be rather important. ”

She nodded, and swept past him without sparing him a single glance as she hurried down the corridor, in the direction of Grindelwald ’ s study. That was the place where he could be found on most days, when they were not out conducting rallies or completing missions. The furnishings had an air of opulence, even in the hallways, and few could guess at the misery festering beneath their feet simply by looking at the richness of Nurmengard ’ s decorum.

The Dark Lord was seated at his desk as usual. He was clothed in his dark, militaristic style, with a few well-chosen ornaments crisscrossing the broad expanse of his chest to form an intricate array. That was one of the things she liked best about him: he was always impeccably dressed, no matter what occasion, and his dignity was like an impenetrable suit of armor that no aversion could ever hope to sway. She had seen him triumphant and victorious, majestic and arrogant, and that was the side of him most often presented to the world at large. He was one of those  _ capable _ individuals who seemed always in control, and though it had been a long time since she last witnessed his rage, she knew it was there, the savagery in him lurking beneath the surface of his polished demeanor. 

He glanced up as she entered, apparently well-rested and at ease, but Vinda had served him long enough to notice the tiny note of dissonance in his outward appearance. Something was hounding his thoughts, the sort of inconvenient aftermath that accompanies an ill-suited act of indiscretion. That alone was enough to put her on guard, though it was a very small affair in comparison to the cold rage he had shown the night after the rally in Paris, 1927. She wondered what he had been up to last night. A series of complicated guesses ran through her mind, but she managed to toss aside every assumption, and concentrated as she stood respectfully in front of his desk.

For a while he did not speak, choosing instead to shift through the papers piled at one elbow. His wand, lengthy and of a most curious shape, lay idly by his left hand, and Vinda found herself wondering about its strange nature once more as her gaze slid over it. Then he spoke, and her attention was once more riveted on him that was the sole prop of her existence.

“ Well? ”

Well. So it was a report he expected of her.

“ The British Ministry has been secured, ”  she began, her words tumbling out in their readiness, coherent and composed,  “ MACUSA is still struggling  —  Seraphina Picquery is reluctant to cede control to the new president of our choosing. You know the woman, my lord, and her influence did not end with her presidency. The war-criminal Hitler has committed suicide, and the Muggles hope to end their affairs soon with Japan  —“

She stopped when Grindelwald held up a hand to silence her.  Did he already know all this? Her master was not the sort to ignore details, no matter how inconsequential they may seem. He had learned his lesson nearly twenty years ago.

“ Newton Scamander and his brother has been sighted on the borders of Austria. ”  His voice was even, velvety, and only a vague undercurrent he could not quite conceal suggested that this nugget of information was worth more than the weight of its components. 

“ They have only been in hiding for a day, ”  she tried,  “ perhaps it was a mere stumble. They are now wanted, after all... ”

“ No. ”  Grindelwald ’ s reply was firm. He stood, towering over her in his height. His mismatched eyes were cold and blank, and Vinda would have given much to be able to retreat a few steps and put some distance between herself and the Dark Wizard. She did not think it safe to answer him. A beat as Grindelwald seemed to reach a decision.

“ Send out news that Albus Dumbledore is kept inside the German Ministry of Magic, ”  he instructed, and the witch thought she understood why. It was, after all, the first government that they had infiltrated, and a cat ’ s paw that was wholly theirs, its Minister now a fanatical follower of their cause. She wasn ’ t quite sure of what that might serve to accomplish, however, beside the obvious benefit that it might finally enable them to capture that pesky zoo-keeper and his troublesome brother and put an end to them, once and for all. 

Compared to a pair of soon-to-be has-beens, she was far more interested in how Albus Dumbledore might be involved in this mess that is unsettling the Dark Lord. He had won, but his victory seems to be weighing upon him, and Vinda could not help but wonder about the strangeness of it all. 

But it was no business of hers. Whatever the Dark Lord had in mind for his imprisoned opponent, that was up to him to sort through. For now she had orders of her own to fulfill, and an unfinished breakfast still waiting for her back in her room. She bowed in acknowledgement, and dismissed herself quickly as Grindelwald sank once more into his chair, contemplating things which he alone might know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens a bit more, and we get to see Newt Scamander and company in action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit later than I had expected, but since I’m preparing for a bunch of exams and still living on my own (that does tend to strain my free time), the best I can do is try to push on with this story. The plot needs to quicken slightly, which I am honestly trying to do, but I have zero experience with long stories... any suggestions on how YOU might want this story to go? I’ll see if I can fit in new ideas...

It was drizzling cold rain in Vienna, and Newt Scamander had seldom felt half so miserable as he did now, since today was obviously not his finest hour. Drops of water slid down the opening of his coat-front, splattering grey spots all over the rough fabric and dampening the linen of his shirt, so that he was half numbed by cold, even in early summer. His mousy bangs were plastered close to his forehead, and the handles of his case felt slippery, as though they had somehow turned into a pair of eels bent on slipping from his grasp. He had been stepping quite gingerly around the numerous puddles, but the leather of his shoes were sopping wet, and he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do next.

Yes. Not his finest hour in the least bit.

An automobile splashed into a puddle the size of a garden pond situated not three feet from him, and he cursed under his breath as a wave of wetness doused his ankle-length boots anew, though he admittedly could not see how they may get any more soaked than they already were. Ahead of him, the tall, solid figure of Theseus Scamander strode along the sidewalk, his steps determined and full of that strange and disconcerting sense of purpose that had never left him since Leta ’ s death, so very long ago. The sight of his brother comforted him slightly, and Newt wondered if he could get away with whipping out his wand for a quick and surreptitious Cleaning Charm  —  or anything to get the mud off his trousers, really. He was about to attempt it when a large, rotund Muggle (whose clothing seemed to indicate that the state of his finances had not been affected much by prolonged warfare) bumped into his shoulder, threw him a disgruntled look, and hurried off without further ado, muttering imprecations in garbled German under his breath. 

On second thoughts, using magic in broad daylight really isn ’ t the best idea, especially when you are out on a street full of obnoxious people looking for trouble.

_ But no. That is a rash judgement to make. Most of them are too frightened, too worn out, and too sick of warfare to think clearly _ _._ The desolation around them, even in a part of the city yet unspoiled by the ravages of war, was ample proof of the psychological dilemmas most of the inhabitants were now perpetually plagued with.  _ Everyone seems to be in despair. Everyone seems to be dead . _

He wondered what Theseus must think of this. Was he hiding all his horror, pity, and disgust under the thin veneer of a bland placidity cracking along its edges, or was he simply too familiar with it all to take notice? The first war had been bad enough in its own right, and now  —

But even if Theseus Scamander, former Head Auror of the British Ministry of Magic,  was in any way perturbed by the sight of so much devastation, he refused to show any sign of inner weakness. Gone was the smiling, bright-eyed young man of former days, and the hollowed-out automaton that had replaced him was but a mere shadow of the man it was trying to imitate. There was no more joy in his face now  —  only a cold determination that presented itself in a jarring manner, and the vague confusion that flitted across his features on rare occasions, as though he had somehow just awakened from a senseless dream he ’ d been plunged into, and was resurfacing for a second to grope weakly in the direction of the riverbank. 

Then he would sink right back down again, and take a little bit of his brother with him.

Newt sighed, emitting from his nose a tiny puff of air that made a small curtain of filmy mist rise before him, and he watched listlessly as it vanished into non-being.  _ Stop thinking of that _ _,_ he chided himself,  _ think of something cheerful. Think of Tina. Think of your creatures. Think of Hogwarts, if you will. Don ’ t think about your brother drowning in his grief, don ’ t think of that _ _._ He had done his best to comfort Theseus, they had all done their best  —  but sometimes your best simply isn ’ t good enough, and sometimes there are wounds that cannot heal, no matter how much time you give them. 

Thus he refrained from setting meaningless words loose, and thus Theseus pretended to be fine on most days. It was a strange and delicate truce that they maintained, and when its balance had been finally broken, both of them were left helpless in the mud, acutely aware that their best and last prop had been whisked from beneath their feet, and nothing save the combination of their own meager strengths might serve to extricate them from their fatal woes. Newt had been almost giddy with hysteria that day, when he saw Dumbledore ’ s smooth black wand jerked from his grasp and sent sailing through the air, landing at last in Grindelwald ’ s outstretched hand. He had watched, numb and open-mouthed, as two of Grindelwald ’ s Acolytes emerged from the crowd of bystanders to lead his defenseless teacher away; one was that little ball of slime named Abernathy, and the other a tall, strapping fellow he did not know. They had each grasped his former teacher by the arm, and before he could do anything more than let out a few strangled sounds of protest, all three of them were gone, and Tina was shaking his shoulder very hard, whispering something urgently into his left ear. She was the same height as he was, and therefore did not have to stand on tiptoe to reach him, another detail he had always found quite fascinating about her.  _ Strange, how I had never really taken notice of it before . _

Then Theseus was gripping his other shoulder, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his dove-colored coat, and steering him forcefully away from the scene, away from the spot where his professor had just been defeated. The hands of his brother had been almost vicious, shouting to him without words that  _ they had to leave _ _,_ and his head felt light enough to start floating of its own accord as the three of them stumbled off into the dimming twilight with an equally confused Jacob in tow, and all the while he had no room for any other thought than to  _ go back _ _,_ because Dumbledore had just been defeated, and Merlin knows what Grindelwald might do to him next. A few inarticulate noises emerged from the depths of his throat, the beginnings of a confused protest, but nobody paid him any attention, and he had no memory of how they managed to get to their nearest safe-house, a small, flimsy affair located on the outskirts of that city, with a front room just large enough to accommodate the four of them and their coats.

“ We have to go back. ”  That the first coherent sentence that he managed, as soon as they were all seated on various chairs, and the front door was bolted shut with as many security spells as they could safely cast without bringing down the roof. His words were met with incredulous stares.

“ We have to go back, ”  he repeated, a little louder this time, fearful that his friends and sibling had somehow lost their ability to comprehend English,  “ we have to go back, you understand? He ’ s got Dumbledore  —“

“ And he ’ ll get us too, if you go charging off after him! ”  Theseus snapped,  “ Use your brains, Newt! Dumbledore just lost, and that Austrian blighter now has entire Ministries backing him up! We ’ ll be lucky if the four of us can make it back to London alive. ”

“ And what will we do once we ’ re back in London? ”  Even to him, his voice sounded soft and boyish, and bore no resemblance to the voice of a man who might be capable of embarking on any sort of rescue mission. His mind was still fuzzy and shaken, as if he ’ d been gulping down Firewhiskey on an empty stomach, but his brain told him quite clearly that it was simply the effect of too much shock, and not blind intoxication.  _ And I deserve to feel like this. I ’ m the one who pushed Dumbledore into fighting. He wasn ’ t ready, but we were all pushing him and he had to. So he lost . _

His brother ran a jagged hand through his mess of dark brown hair.  “ I don ’ t know. Go back to the Ministry, find out whoever ’ s still on our side, and then leave, I suppose. I ’ ve still got my job, and Tina can go back to MACUSA, but you ’ ll have to leave. Get the hell out of Britain. You were close to Dumbledore, and you ’ re the one who caught him in New York, so he ’ ll be after you, Newt. You ’ ll have to leave the country. ”

He could not believe what he had just heard. Had Theseus truly just ordered him to run? His brother, who always had a way of bringing down large problems and making them disappear? He looked helplessly to Tina, and was met with a pair of familiar, chocolaty eyes, the same eyes seemed to burn because they saw in him the intensity of his love. Those brown eyes were full of trepidation, and he suddenly realized that he could not drag her into... this. Whatever mess this is that he had first gotten himself into, back in 1926.

“ All right, ”  he heard himself say,  “ I ’ ll go, and Tina can go back to the United States and take Jacob with her... ”

“ Now, wait jus ’  a second  —“  Jacob began indignantly, but Newt cut him off, somehow gathering enough of his senses to speak kindly but firmly.

“ Theseus is right. Grindelwald will want revenge on me. I stole the blood pact from him in Paris and gave it to Dumbledore. I urged him to break it. I ’ m sorry. ”  He took a deep breath and plowed on,  “ But I ’ m not leaving to go into hiding. I have to find Dumbledore and get him out of whatever hellhole Grindelwald just stuck him into. Please don ’ t try to stop me. ”  The words felt strange and rough in his mouth, but saying them out loud gave him some semblance of a sense of purpose, and he no longer felt half so raw and vulnerable once they were said, though he knew that turning them into reality would prove to be a different matter altogether.

His speech was met with silence. He stared at the three people in front of him, his demeanor still his own, but somehow with the added effect of incurable mulishness. It was true, after all  —  without Dumbledore they had nothing, no idea of what to do now or where to go next. They were the remnants of a broken army littered across the surface of a ravaged chessboard, and though they did not question which way they were _supposed_ to go, they had no idea of where to begin. It had always been Dumbledore who came up with the best ideas, gently suggesting a course of action in which they had the liberty of choosing how to follow their own free wills. Without him they were nothing, amounting only to a few scattered pieces left exposed on the lightning-struck battlefield after the storm, and Grindelwald would soon start picking them off one by one.

His eyes found Tina ’ s, and he could see now that her moment of frailty was over. They exchanged a quick nod, a painful acknowledgement of the separate ways they would soon have to go  —  she could not follow him, wherever he went, and though he wished desperately that it might prove otherwise, her eyes would follow him still, long after they lose sight of one another. She had a road of her own to travel and a sister to save besides, and thus could not traverse into the darkness that was his alone to brave. He suddenly wished that they were alone together, just the two of them, so that he could put into words the things too delicate to be uttered in front of their unwanted spectators, but he doubted if she would appreciate such a confession under these heinous circumstances.

And so it was settled. It turned out that Theseus had gone temporarily speechless at his suicidal declaration, but once he regained his voice, he was perfectly capable of suggesting to Newt (in no uncertain terms) that the latter must have taken leave of his senses, and if he wished to die alone then they may as well do it together. He understood that Theseus had his own reasons for wanting to come along  —  there were days when he himself ached for the bright sound of Leta ’ s joyous laugh, and hate was a fire that could sustain one even on the coldest of barren nights  —  and he had no objections, though it took a considerable amount of effort to convince Jacob that following them was perhaps not a viable course of action. Jacob was kind and brave, the most generous soul he ’ d ever met  —  but he was a Muggle, and Queenie would not be kindly disposed towards either he or his brother should the baker suddenly experience an inconvenient accident while in their company, perhaps due to the courtesy of one of Grindelwald ’ s thugs.

They had each taken their separate ways after that, and he and Theseus had been slowly making their way to Grindelwald ’ s base in Austria ever since, at least until they received news that Dumbledore was being kept in the German Ministry of Magic. They had looked at each other then, uncertainty written deep within their eyes, and finally reached an agreement not to listen to the poison that was hearsay. Newt had never pretended to know Grindelwald as well as Dumbledore did, but it seemed unlikely that the Dark Wizard would leave his most powerful enemy in the hands of those he normally considered  _ incompetent .  _

_ Not that our decision to disregard this obvious bait would be of much help. Not when we still don ’ t know where exactly Grindelwald ’ s base is. _

But they were close. Newt trusted his instincts, even if his brother didn ’ t, and once they find what they ’ re looking for, the rest should be easy enough  —  they would do what they had always done best, and improvise on the spot.

Or at least, that ’ s what he would try to do himself. For now, he had to brave the muddy streets of Vienna, and put up with the unnatural bouts of sullenness from his once-bright brother, with only memories of one Porpentina Goldstein to sustain him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Theseus is a bit of a mess, which is a shame because he is truly likable. We’ll see what becomes of him soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. So things are really going to start revving up after this. I hope it won’t escalate too much, but who can tell? I’ve a vague idea of how I want this story to go, but it’s going to take lots of time, patience, and bravado, and I’m not sure if I’m up to it. Another thing — the formatting here is really weird, and it’s been bothering me for a good while: every time I do italics, there are blank spaces all over the place, and I have no idea how they got here. Does anyone know to fix this? If absolutely nothing works, I recommend heading over to my Tumblr account mephistophilia-k12 to read the slightly better version. Just in case.

It was rather discouraging for Albus to find himself settling into a sort of semi-acceptance as he slowly adjusted to life in captivity. It was difficult at first to wake up to unfamiliar surroundings, and far less heartening still to find himself enclosed in the same cage as he had been when he went to bed the night before. He would dress himself rapidly and take a few bites of the luxurious breakfast set out by the house-elves (those serving him seemed to be on rotation, and were never the same two days in a row), and then scour through the protective spells wrapped around his quarters, searching incessantly for the nonexistent crack that would allow him to break through the wards. But as a beleaguered kitten scratching irritably at the heavy draperies it could not ever hope to lift, he was inevitably disappointed by the results, and at last admitted to himself that Gellert had sealed every possible crevice to the place, and the closest of his scrutinies could not avail him of the opening he needed in order to make his escape.

The realization blunted what little that remained of his appetite. He was not foolhardy enough to completely refuse the meals his jailers served, but the flesh fell quickly from his bones, and he felt a sort of perverse vindication in denying his body what it needed to function without a stutter. It had been five days since he was first deposited here, and he had had no visitors other than Gellert, who seemed determined to maintain a respectable distance since that first night of arrant pleasure. He found himself missing the Dark Wizard, even if he wasn ’ t quite ready to see him again, and it was a lonely,  _ lonely  _ thing to be shut off entirely from the world outside.

And so he read  —  to pass the weary time, to fill his mind with things other than woes turned almost waxen from being chewed on to an excess. He could feel each second trickling past him, dragging its feet over the plush carpet, and brushing a caress over his cheek as it held its forefinger to its lips before fading into nothing. To grasp it is to cup quicksand, and the hours marched by him as though he had no more life than a stump of old wood rooted to one spot. It is no easy feat to tell time when one is trapped within a gilded cage and left without a clock, and Albus could feel his entire existence compressing into something that resembled a glass of cold, smooth milk, its surface terrifyingly blank and yet prone to aggrieved disturbances arising at the least provocation.  _ I will not be the first to cry over spilt milk . _

That was the first thought that rose to the front of his mind each morning, and his last thought at dusk as he draped his coat over the back of the nearest chair, and nestled deep into the pile of velvety blankets and soft, high pillows. Sleep would not come to him of its own accord, and so he had to lure it in, with a drowsy book and an hour or two of heavy silence. There were quite a few works by Muggles to drowse over, and he had been rather surprised to find them sitting on his bookshelf, their pages fresh and untouched  —  he did not think that Gellert would be so considerate as to go out of his way to source books written by the non-magic population, but there they reclined, including a few of his favorites, and they formed a pleasant contrast to the dry, lengthy Transfiguration essays wedged in primly in their midst. He read voraciously when he was in the mood, and submerged himself in the deepest of stupors when he wasn ’ t. The book would slide from his nerveless fingers when sleep finally overtook him, and he would linger slightly as it drew him over the edge of the dark chasm, listening stupidly to the muffled  _ thump _ it makes as it falls into the embraces of the woolen rug beneath the bed. The lamps would dim then, and blessed darkness would reign, until an uneasy dream prods him awake with malicious intent.

There was no sleep to be had once these dreams withdrew, and so he would lie there, neither awake nor dreaming but somewhere in between, like a hapless animal caught in the glaring headlights of a speeding truck. Sometimes he would stretch out a wasted hand to brush against the surface of the pillow where Gellert ’ s head had lain, and the starched linen would then inform him blandly that whatever he needed was  _ not there _ _._ Perhaps it wasn ’ t anywhere. He himself did not know his own needs; or perhaps he did know, and his mind had chosen to block that particular tidbit as it had blocked a thousand other admittances he dared not speak out loud. It was, at any rate, much too late to tell the difference.

It was on the sixth day that something unusual happened, though in hindsight, he would have gladly dispensed with the incident altogether and settled for his normal lethargy instead. The sky was streaked with purplish veins outside, and the remains of his noonday meal had already been cleared away, when his ears noted the faint sound of approaching footsteps striding towards the locked door of his prison. He stood immediately (the ground rushed up to meet him almost before he could steady himself on a nearby chair), not wanting to be caught off guard, and laid  _ Purgatorio _ closed on the small table at his side. The lock turned  —  once, twice  —  and he braced himself for Grindelwald ’ s renewed presence and the medley of biting things they might finally get to say to each other.

But it was not Gellert who entered. Two unfamiliar faces appeared before him, their owners clad in the long leather coats that was standard apparel for European Aurors. Behind them was that twitchy American Abernathy, his felt hat perched at an awkward angle across his scalp (it lent him a bit of much-needed height), and he had barely a second to process all this before the Aurors were taking him firmly by the arm and guiding him out of the room. There was a single terrible moment when his fractured mind failed to follow, and choked instead on an overwhelming sense of  _ deja vu _ as he recalled the manner in which he had been taken hence, but the moment sharpened quickly, and his eyes adjusted enough to the dim light of the corridor to see the triangle, circle, and line etched in gold thread upon the left breast pockets of the Aurors holding him. 

_ Grindelwald ’ s men now _ _._ And all that was wanted was a large sign painted across their foreheads, to declare to all the world the identity of their new master. A hysterical laugh welled up, and threatened to spill out of his throat, but he swallowed it hastily, and congratulated himself at having mustered enough energy to make himself passably presentable that morning. He did not care what happened next, beyond the idea that they would not see him miserable and prostrate. His guards led him at a rapid pace along the corridor, with Abernathy ’ s ridiculous headgear still bobbing along behind them, and into an airy room lined with several rows of long wooden tables. There was a fireplace at one end, the tall flames already crackling acid green, and into this they forced him headfirst, squeezing in beside him (though somehow refraining from squashing him entirely into the brick wall) to bark a few unintelligible syllables at the roaring fire. 

The  whoosh  that followed lifted an impressive amount of grayish ash, and he thanked Merlin that none of it got into his eyes.

As soon as the world stopped spinning, he was hoisted unceremoniously to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried over an expanse of burgundy hearthrug, the short Acolyte clambering unceremoniously out in their wake. Albus managed to regain enough of his bearings to see that they were currently in some sort of low-ceilinged underground room, walled in by looming blocks of oppressive, dun-colored granite. The room was wide but bare, the only article of furniture discernible being a narrow sofa sitting near the opposite end of the chamber. His two guards wasted little time in placing him upon it, and as soon as he was seated, they planted themselves squarely at each end, as though simply  daring him to make an unwarranted dash for freedom. Abernathy, after meticulously ridding his outfit of the layer of fine ash coating his skin (for some reason, the dust seemed to like him better than it did Albus), gingerly stepped forward to drop the second volume of Dante ’ s  _magnum_ _opus_ onto the cushion next to him. He must have snatched it up right after the Aurors had gripped their quarry and marched him away.

Albus shot him an unimpressive look. There was a time when he would have smiled at such an antic, but as of late he ’ d been too tired to spare even the memory of a smile at anything other than a pained recollection. He was acutely aware of how frail his limbs must seem after nearly a week of malnourishment, and his auburn tresses had lost much of their former luster, so that his cascade of long hair was more the shade of withered leaves than vibrant flame, though he could not remember ever having cared less about his outward appearance as he did now.

The four of them remained locked in this strange staring contest for a time, with Albus shifting his gaze onto each of his guards in turn, his blue eyes burning into their faces as they invariably turned away from him. They had not long to wait, however, and there was a small  _ pop _ as Gellert Grindelwald Apparated into their midst, followed by a second, louder  _ pop _ as his green-eyed lieutenant took her place beside him. Rosier ’ s eyes performed the expected flick from her master ’ s imposing height to Albus ’  seated form, and her lips curled slightly in ambivalent amusement as she took in the latter ’ s half-emaciated body, though it was still neatly dressed in its usual dove-colored three-piece.

Albus paid her no more heed than to the ashes trailing onto the carpet. Gellert ’ s entrance had sucked all the air from his lungs, and he suddenly could not draw his breath back in as the Dark Lord strode closer, motioning for his guards to step aside. The Aurors obeyed, leaving them just enough room for Grindelwald to approach. Albus tensed at the proximity, and his eyes widened as the wizard bent down on one knee to place a large, warm hand over the fabric covering his thigh.

He shivered slightly at the touch, his skin tingling as Grindelwald  —  _ no, Gellert _ —  brushed a caress over the grey material, a far more potent greeting than any number of pale, weak words after imparting to Albus the appalling circumstances he ’ d been mulling over since their last meeting. That flutter of sensation drove all memory of the blood pact ’ s fragments from his mind, and he almost missed the tiny smirk traced upon the Dark Lord ’ s lips as the fireplace behind them glowed an eerie shade of green once more, dumping Newt Scamander and his brother onto the stone floor before them, followed by half a dozen wizards jabbing the tips of their wands into the necks of their prey.

Albus bounded up  —  or he would have, if Grindelwald hadn ’ t seen it coming and pressed him back onto the sofa the moment his muscles tensed to spring. As it was, he was thrown back rather harshly into his seat, and could only part his lips in horror as Newt managed to twist his bruised and battered face into a grimace of a smile, croaking  “ Hello, professor. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note Tina's timely absence -- it will be important later on.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry. It’s going to hurt. Like hell. But it’ll get better — I promise. I like Happy endings, no matter how hard they are to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. It’s been awfully long, or maybe not that long at all. I’ve been venturing down a dangerous road with this one, but here it is, and I hope you’ll like it. This story just gets longer and longer the more I write, but I kind of like that, and there will be some unexpected twists really soon. As always, my Tumblr blog has a version that is slightly easier to read, so head over to mephistophilia-k12 if you’re so inclined — just skip through my garbage drawings!

All the air left Albus ’  lungs in a single rush. That  voice  —  that was Newt ’ s voice, gentle and hesitant and slightly hoarse, like sanding paper soaked in wine  —  that was Newt, and he was  _ here , _ together with his brother in a lion ’ s den, here for whatever reason that had brought them right into the maw of the dragon.

The Magizoologist looked as though someone had just recently pushed him through a windmill. His gingery bangs, normally lying tousled all over his forehead, were matted with dried blood and stuck up in odd places. There was a bronze-green bruise discoloring the righthand corner of his lips, and his blue coat was slashed open to reveal the numerous cuts on his dun-colored vest and shirt. His wrists were a ruin of red welts, where a pair of thick iron cuffs had clamped them together behind his back, and his face had thinned considerably since Albus last saw it. There was a slightly haunted look of confusion in his hazel eyes, almost as if he had absolutely no idea of how he ’ d gotten into this situation, and was hoping that someone might finally be kind enough to explain it.

Theseus looked worse. His tidy dark hair was cut choppily on one side, possibly from the effects of a badly-aimed Severing Charm, and several of his teeth were missing. His breathing was ragged, his pale, clear skin marred by several crimson gashes, but it was his eyes that spoke for him, and they wandered blankly around until they found Albus, then focused on him with unnerving intensity. Those eyes were inflamed like a festering wound, and they looked at him accusingly.

_ I ’ m so sorry. _ The words welled up to the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back, and turned his gaze to Gellert instead. He mustered the fragments left that was his voice.

“ What is the meaning of this? ”  The words came out like crumpled silk smoothed over a steel blade, and he was inwardly grateful that it had not faltered.

Grindelwald reached out with one hand to brush back a few strands of the reddish curls falling into his eyes. Albus tilted backwards in disgust, leaning as far away as possible from his touch and Newt ’ s widening eyes.  _This is not what it seems , he implored silently. This is not what it looks like._

Newt seemed to have received the message somehow. His eyes lowered to the floor as he tucked his head securely between his shoulder blades. Albus noted that his case was not with him. Beside him, Theseus ’  hooded gaze flickered as it traveled from one guard to another, wary and speculative, though Albus could not be certain if anyone else had caught on to that barely-perceptible change in his attitude.

The Dark Lord ’ s lips contracted slightly, but his tone remained light and conversational, bordering on mockery as he withdrew, rising to his full height.  “ Nothing remarkable,  liebling .  Your friends were caught trying to sneak into Nurmengard. ”  He took a step backwards, so that Albus had to raise his head a bit in order to keep him within his line of vision, and went on.  “ So I have taken the trouble to invite them here  —  to talk. ”

“ They never even made it past the front gates, but we were already waiting for them, ”  Rosier chimed in, her vermilion lips curling upwards with cruel amusement,  “ I would recommend finer tastes in friends after this, Professor, provided if you can... ”  Her faint accent reminded one of heavy musks and clouded perfumes, but Albus barely had time to register her words before she broke off upon catching her master ’ s eye. She hastily crossed her arms in front of her chest, folding her pale hands together nervously as she shifted her weight once or twice. Grindelwald ignored her, and gestured for Abernathy to speak.

The American seemed no less ill at ease. He really was rather short, Albus noticed, and the lines of his suit were prim and rigid. He began where the witch had left off.  “ Well  —  as Madame Rosier was saying... ”  Here he paused, and dabbed quickly at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead, which had just sprung into being,  “ The Scamander brothers bumped into me in Vienna, ignored the misinformation we had previously spread, and made their way straight to our headquarters. They were ambushed by our men a little over an hour ago, and swiftly overpowered, though they were able to inflict some damage on  —“

Gellert held up an elegant finger to stop him from continuing further, and the American wisely declined to finish his ramblings. Albus had not taken in a word of what he said; half of his mind was intently focused on the fidgeting movements of Newt and his brother, and the other half remained fixated on the implications of what had just occurred.

_ Newt has been capture d. _

The thought whirled like a windstorm through his brain, and left in its wake a horrendous mass of sharp fragments and jagged splinters, poking and prodding at the uncovered portions of his weakened mind, shaving off tiny shreds of his wits until there was nothing left that he could even begin to salvage. His temper rose like a streak of smoky incense.

“ You swore that my friends would come to no harm. ”  His voice became an octave higher, but overall it remained even, and the younger Scamander sibling ’ s eyes darted between the speaker and the man he was addressing, intuitively sensing that these words held greater weight than he had previously assumed.

Gellert smiled coldly.  “ My love, I promised you nothing of the kind. I swore that I would not try to find them  —  I said nothing whatsoever of not taking action should they wander right into my hands. ”

“ You  — “

But Albus did not finish. It was at that moment that Theseus Scamander saw his chance and took it. He had been listening to the conversation with rapt attention, and his guards had been similarly engrossed. The moment their focus had slipped, he sprang upwards from his crouching position, and delivered a heavy blow to the face of one of the Aurors. There was a sickening  crunch as the head of his victim made contact with the wall closest to him, but Theseus never paused an instant as he whirled around and dove for the wand of the wizard standing right next to his brother. The remaining guards fired spells indiscriminately as Newt regained his footing and joined the fray as well as the two Acolytes drew their wands and hurried forward to sort out their prisoners ’  rebellion.

Albus did not miss a beat. He could not focus enough power to cast a potent spell when deprived of his wand, but he gathered what was left of his strength and shaped it into a blinding ray of pure energy, and aimed it at Grindelwald, rising from his seat in one fluid motion as he released his magic. He had not hoped to accomplish anything by this, except to buy Newt and his brother enough time to make a quick escape.  _ They came looking for me. It is my fault that they are here . _

The Elder Wand swished through the air to deflect his attack, and made a graceful arc almost too quick for the naked eye to follow. The force of the shield sent Albus staggering back, but before he could land on his feet, a familiar arm entwined itself about his waist and hoisted him back onto the sofa. There was a tremendous  _ bang _ as Newt was slammed to the ground, and Theseus Scamander was bellowing like an injured bull when a streak of emerald light hit him squarely in the face.

The room seemed to plunge into slow motion. Albus could see his former student ’ s light blue eyes widening by a fraction as the full impact of the curse hit him; the cerulean orbs bulged as they took in the eerie glow of the spell, absorbing its unearthly rays as an abyss swallows the light cast upon it, emptied of all turbulence. He backpedaled once  —  twice  —  and then fell to his knees, swaying as the Unforgivable sucked all the life out of him, and Newt ’ s distant scream wormed its way into his brain even as the Magizoologist was dragged from the room, his face a dull shade of red as he continued his inarticulate howl of anguish. Rosier and Abernathy shot each other harried looks as they gripped their wands still more tightly, unsure of who had struck the killing blow, but Albus had had enough. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, and fought to contain the spasm of emotion wracking his frame as Gellert pressed both hands down on his shoulders to hold him in place, gesturing at his henchmen to leave the room at once.

They complied quickly, levitating Theseus Scamander ’ s body into the air and making it float before them as they hurriedly made their exit. Albus kept his eyes shut even when the sound of their footsteps had died away entirely. He could not bear to open them. He could not bear to look at the spot where the corpse had lain. He could not bear to be in Gellert ’ s vicinity. He could not bear the warm, solid touch of his hands, hands that had just killed without lifting a finger and was now attempting to comfort him, gently stroking his back to stop the uncontrollable shake of his frail body.

“ Get away from me, ”  he choked, as soon as he could form a coherent sentence.  “ Get out. Get the hell out. ”

He did not know where the sudden surge of strength had come from, but he lost it as soon as the words had left his mouth, and he was left a cold and shivering mess as Gellert ’ s arms wrapped around him, anchoring him to something blessedly warm and solid as he fought to draw each breath.

He did not know how long it took for him to regain his equilibrium. Perhaps an hour had passed. Or perhaps it was only a few minutes. He only knew that the light of the torches had dimmed considerably by the time he was ready to talk once more, and he unfolded himself from his doubled-up position to glare daggers at the man in front of him. He could not speak  —  his throat was constricted by a massive flow of blood rushing through his veins, but his eyes spoke for him, and they were eloquent.

_Why,_ he asked,  _ why? Why me? Why Newt? Why this torture and this pain? Why this ceaseless persecution? Why rub victory in the face until its skin is red and raw and bleeding? _

_You know perfectly well why,_ the mismatched eyes replied, one grey and one black, the dark orb brighter than the smoky components of its  counterpart .  _ You are the knife I turn inside myself, as I am yours. That is love. That, my dear, is love . _

And Albus fully understood.

The weight of that knowledge crushed him, as did the torments that Grindelwald had devised.  _ We are the chinks in each other ’ s armor, the weakest links in an unbreakable chain . _ The broken blood pact. That amorous first night. His capitulation. Gellert ’ s threatening triumph. It all added up to this, a single answer he could not bear to utter, and Gellert had gotten to it before he could even begin to understand the nature of its workings. What difference could a single word make? What was mutilated love compared to half a century of lopsided hate? Theseus Scamander ’ s lifeless corpse stared at him with grievous accusation, and the sight of it danced before his eyes until he would be more than grateful to finally scream out loud.

There was a soft popping noise, and he lifted his eyes in time to see Grindelwald uncork the contents of a small purplish bottle. The thick potion within swirled invitingly, whispering sweet and empty promises of a dreamless slumber with no intrusions. The Dark Wizard lifted the neck of the bottle and held it to his lips, gently tipping it forward so that his captive could easily drink. Albus did not hesitate. He obediently parted his lips, and did not pause until he had drained the last few drops of the violet potion.

It lacked the habitual bitter taste of all Sleeping Draughts. He should have felt alarm at that, or at least a little wariness, but his limbs were already leaden, and his eyelashes drooped upon his cheeks as Grindelwald slipped an arm beneath the crook of his knees and lifted him into the air. The darkness was creeping in on him, but Albus could not bring himself to care  —  he simply shifted his head until his face was no longer resting in the junction between the Dark Lord ’ s neck and shoulders, and drifted off into the quiet surf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat — I’m sorry! But what happened had to happen, and the ending will still work out... I think.  
> As for the knife we turn inside ourselves, yes, that is Kafka.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strangeness increases, which won’t stay for long if everything goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Thought I’d update early, since beginning next week I will be super busy again, and time is a precious thing when I’m trying to tell a story. A bit unexpected, the way this plot is turning out, but I’m letting my imagination run here, and I promise that things will start to make sense in a minute. As always, my Tumblr account has a better version.

It was a strange dream that he had, and it stirred him sharply, though afterward he could not not say for a certainty if he had really dreamed at all. 

He could not shoulder any blame for that  —  Albus Dumbledore so rarely dreamed these days. He had done it often in adolescence, back in the days when na ï vet é  still had him in its indolent grip, and he could spend long stretches of time pretending that he was part of a normal family. No disturbed sisters, liable to blowing up the roof every other hour. No wayward brothers, chucking goat droppings at passersby for staring over the backyard fence. No haggard mothers, hurrying endlessly about the house, locking all the doors and windows and pinning the drapes shut so tightly that the living-room resembled a dungeon. No absent fathers, his guilt hanging over them like a heavily-sodden mist, the image of his laughing blue eyes just far enough away to be out of reach, his wispy hair turned mottled grey like the walls of Azkaban. 

No, Albus had not dreamed for many years. There were nights when he would wake up in a cold sweat, his pupils huge and dipped so far that its blackness would bleed into the confines of his room, but those did not count as  _ dreams _ _._ He knew very well what he had encountered  —  a memory, a thought, a shred of recollection that would threaten to engulf him if he could not rein it in, but they were never dreams. Only Gellert could dream, and he was not Gellert.

He opened his eyes to the balmy hues of a late August day, and for a moment the world spun, before a hand readjusted the pair of spectacles sitting precariously on the bridge of his nose and his surroundings came into focus. The hand did not retreat once its work was done  —  it lingered for a second, tracing the contours of one cheek with a lazy finger before brushing against the red hair hanging past his shoulders. Then it fell limply to one side, and he was looking into Gellert ’ s laughing eyes, one black and one silver, the twin lights in them dancing with mischief. His head lay fully in Albus ’  lap, a halo of golden curls entwining about his angular features, softening them to the point where he looked almost angelic. Almost.

“ You were asleep,  _ liebling , ”  _ his voice was crisp and clear, hardened like the voice of a grown man even at age sixteen, and it was one of the things that Albus never tired of hearing. It was so different from his own, with its low dulcet notes and short, clipped syllables built like little matchsticks, though he had been trying all summer to lose his British accent.  “ What did you dream of? ”

Dark red eyelashes fluttered over sky blue orbs, and his answer was as warm and soft as the sun-soaked air around them, splotched with dusky shadows where the light could not penetrate the thick foliage of the oak trees that they sat beneath.  “ I never dream. ”

Gellert laughed out loud.  “ Nonsense, my love. Everyone dreams, even if they don ’ t remember. ”  He shifted his head slightly, into a more comfortable position, and his hand crept up again to card playfully through the wild array of auburn waves. Albus batted his hand away, and made a half-hearted attempt to shove off the mass of spun gold tickling his lap through the linen of his trousers. 

“ You do  —  but I don ’ t. ” 

His companion grinned. His teeth were white and shapely, and when he smiled he eyes glinted in the sunlight, the bright reflections throwing off tiny glimmers that made them shift like a  kaleidoscope in river water. The dark one was always brighter than its pale counterpart, and looking into them gave Albus a jolting sense of vertigo, as if he was sitting on a tilted plane, not quite on par with his merry partner.

The back of his neck prickled a warning, but he brushed it off. He could not bear to lose this precious moment, a moment spent without Aberforth ’ s snide grumblings and Ariana ’ s endless demands. His fingers mixed in the tangle of Gellert ’ s larger palm, and the nails of the other closed in on his own, digging playfully into soft, unprotected flesh. The barely-perceptible pang of pain turned slightly sickly as he gazed into the other ’ s eyes, caught off-guard by the sudden intensity of his own words.

“ But I don ’ t suppose it will always prove true. ”  He pressed on warmly.  “ Your visions didn ’ t come until you were six, yes? So I may start dreaming as well  —  when I am older and wiser. ”

“ Ack! Old wisdom, in all its faded glories. ”  Gellert kicked moodily at a nearby pebble, and it rolled a few pettish inches before bouncing to a stop.  “ You are far too serious for your age, Albus  —  I ask you a question in play, and you answer me with some deep philosophy that sounds positively absurd when it comes out of your mouth. You never try to be young! ”  And he threw up his hands in faint mockery, though Albus could see the corners of his lips twitching like a rabbit ’ s tail. His own amusement rose likewise.

“ My apologies, Gellert. Am I boring you? If I am, tell me and I ’ ll be quiet  —“

“ But I don ’ t want you to be quiet. ”  All of a sudden, Gellert was in front of him, leaning in so closely that he could see the tiny veins snaking through the whites of his eyes. They would always turn bloodshot after an intense vision of some sort, Albus knew, and the alarm bells began clanging away again in his head. With an effort he silenced them, choosing instead to focus on Gellert and nothing else. It was easy, when nothing else mattered to him at the moment. 

“ What shall I do then? ”  He laid aside the book on alchemy which he had been reading, and patiently folded his hands in his lap, the delicate joints of his fingers curving like cigars of purest jade.

“ Whatever you like, ”  Gellert breathed, tilting his forehead closer until skin brushed against skin, and the heady warmth of his breath drove all disquiet from Albus ’  mind.  “ A phoenix isn ’ t a phoenix if it doesn ’ t sing. ”

He paused, and the rest of his words went unsaid.  _ Here you cannot sing. Here you are wasted. Here is where you will suffocate, and they will tread their unworthy steps all over the moss of your grave . _

“ Well. It ’ s a good thing that I am leaving with you then, is it not? ”  He turned his attention back to the book, and the eerie tenderness shattered as both of them burst out laughing in synchronization, giddy with relief that they would be leaving in another week. First to Paris, then to Zurich, Berlin and Vienna  — 

“ And I must take you to visit our family home as well, ”  Gellert mused, now doodling with a pale green leaf that had drifted onto his head.  “ You should see our family home in the Alps  —  it is rather small now, I must admit, but once I come into my inheritance I ’ ll make quite a few changes. It ’ s surrounded by snow-capped mountains standing about like Titans, and there are bookshelves in the library twenty feet high. You will love it, I ’ m sure. ”

“ I ’ m sure, ”  he echoed, and Gellert smiled again, the angle of his lips so pure and beautiful and Albus could not help but reach out, to touch it and make sure that it is real. The moment his fingers brushed against the smooth skin of his companion, however, the scene shattered like the brittle glass from a cracked mirror, and the world was plunged into darkness.

He almost cried out in anguish, but no sound came forth when he opened his mouth, and his horror passed unseen as the ground gave way under him and he plummeted into the earth. The oak tree above their heads folded in on itself like a deck of cards, and Gellert was no longer there  —  the darkness was swallowing him, as sea foam swallows a speck of sand, and he was plopped into a scene much like the one he had just been torn from, complete with oak tree, book, and sunshine.

Only Gellert was missing.

He stood quickly, his senses screaming at him as he scanned the area. Yes, it was still Godric ’ s Hollow  —  but no, it wasn ’ t  _ his _ _._ Heart pounding furiously, he slipped to the edge of the shaded nook where he and Grindelwald had been sitting a minute ago, and peered down the crest of the grassy hill. Where his memories told him that a village would be lying, there was instead a vast expanse of rubble that lay scattered around huge craters, their centers smoking like wet chimneys. No remnants remained to suggest that a town had once existed here, but the becalmed afternoon still twinkled lazily, its hazy colors jarred by the notes of discord that lamented its recent destruction. 

Albus raked a hand through his hair.  _ This cannot be real _ _._ It was a dream, and like all dreams, he must snap out of it of his own accord  —  he could always manage it, provided that he wanted to.

And he now desperately wanted to.

He concentrated on the scene before him. Its disjointed beauty lay in splinters and fragments, resembling something that a First Year student might have cobbled together out of milk and toast in a bowl. It was an illusion, and all he had to do was break out and leave... nothing too difficult. He focused on the warmth of the sun beating down on the back of his neck as it slowly grew unbearable, sweat beginning to moisten the tall collar of his shirt and jacket, and yet the image was like broken shards, and they cut into him as he attempted to free himself from the wreckage of his mind. He had no way of measuring time, but did time even exist in dreams? His surroundings seemed to have realized that it was (or should be) midsummer, and they mustered their ire accordingly, baking him in waves of heat that slowly arose in shimmering waves. His lips dried and cracked as he went tumbling to his knees, the scorched stubble of browning grass beneath him jabbing into his defenseless flesh. His fingers dug into the turf.  _ Where is Gellert? _

“ Not here. ”  Came a feminine voice over his left shoulder, and with it a breath of cool air that blew a previously-nonexistent cloud over the sun, granting him temporary reprieve. Albus turned his head around to see a slender woman standing behind him, clad in supple black leathers, with a queer smile twisted about the lower half of her face. He opened his mouth to say something  —  perhaps a plea for help, perhaps a query as to what this farce is supposed to be  —  but no sound came out.

It seemed to amuse her for some reason. She leaned forward, her shadow stretching out to an impossible length as she surveyed him, satisfaction brimming in her inky eyes. Albus tried to back away, uneasy at the rude proximity, but his feet seemed rooted to one spot, and he only succeeded in nearly upending himself. Glancing down, he noticed that the soles of his shoes had sprouted tendrils into the dirt, and it was rising up to meet him, the brown mass already covering his ankles and climbing up his trousers inch by inch.  _ This cannot be real . _

“ Oh, but it is! ”  She informed him brightly, her grin now stretching from ear to ear.  “ You ’ re real. I ’ m real. Even your poor excuse of a boyfriend is real. Everything else is simply the result of his most recent mistake! ” 

_ What mistake? _ Albus wracked his mind to find the meaning behind her jumbled words, but there was no conclusion to arrive at. She spoke like she was not remotely human, mixing her intonations so that they slurred together between each word, as if she had been trying to learn English from a dictionary and hadn ’ t quite mastered the art.  _ What mistake is she referring to? _

He couldn ’ t find an answer to that. Granted, he knew very little of Grindelwald ’ s doings while he was kept under lock and key in Nurmengard, but it was rather unlikely that Gellert had gotten into some sort of serious trouble with an unknown entity in the space of five days. 

The woman pursed her full lips. They were painted a deep violet, and two small diamonds dangled on her upper lip, hanging from a nose ring fixed through one nostril. The jewels wobbled when she spoke.  “ Not five days, ”  she informed him curtly.  “ Not that long at all. In fact, he ’ s about to learn that it happened far too late. You will help me drive the lesson home, whether you like it or not. ”  With that she took a step backwards, and Albus breathed a sigh of relief as the sun once more took the place of her shadow. Her darkness had been cold, and the heat was welcoming, even though he knew that it would soon begin to roast him again.

She surveyed him critically. Her eyes flashed as she took in his appearance, hair still tousled from his recent brush with the memory of Gellert, and abruptly stopped her diatribe.  “ You are both idiots, you know that? Imbeciles I ’ ve never seen the like of before, and I ’ ve seen them all. He thinks he ’ s close to getting what he wants  —  maybe. You think you can still try to stop him  —  bull. This fight is already over. You ’ ve both started the next round without knowing it. And you ’ re both losing spectacularly. ”

_ We are. But not to each other. _

She seemed to have caught that thread as well, and found it strangely entertaining. She twirled closer, and inserted a slim finger between Albus ’  lips, prying open his mouth as she spoke. Her skin was so cold that it  burned , and he had to choke back a scream as it pressed deeper into his skull, leaving imprints behind on his jawbone.  “ Tell the Elder Wand I said hello. ”

Then she withdrew her finger, and tapped him sharply on the forehead. The scorched ruins around him collapsed once more as he began to fall, clumps of dirt loosening around his shins as he was plunged headfirst into the earth, her laughter rising behind him like a trail of bubbles.  _ This is why I don ’ t like dreams . _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confused yet? Me too. I think the big problem here is fragmentation — I’m trying to tell a long story with short chapters, which causes confusion when nothing seems to get explained. The plot is beginning to be coherent in my mind, and it’s getting to be quite long, so there will be plenty of time to explain later, though everything should start coming together in a few more chapters. Another problem is the number of loose ends I’ve woven in, but those won’t stay long — another 4000 words or so before we get to the meat of it. I ask for a bit more patience as we go along — I promise the confusion won’t stay. Feel free to ask in the comments if you’re confused, but I’ll just say here that most things added by this point are important, even crucial — especially when it’s a happy ending we want.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an explanation where we get to know more about the curious lady from Albus’ dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13, half a month later than I was expecting, but at least my midterms are over. I should be able to get back into posting weekly, at least until I get bogged down in projects and exams again. This chapter is supposed to tell us a bit about the strange lady, but I’ve purposefully cut it short and left the mystery dangling, because her character is wholly original, and I’m afraid of making introductions so quickly that she seems unnatural. The next chapter is almost done, so I’ll be posting again quite soon, but before we dive into that... a couple of thoughts on what’s been happening recently.
> 
> Okay, about Johnny Depp — I’m still horribly upset over the sheer injustice of it, and I desperately hope that Johnny will be able to come back, but ultimately decided not to leave the fandom. Many of my Chinese friends are staying as well, because this pairing is ultimately Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, not Jude Law/Johnny Depp. Harsh, but there’s no getting around that. As for Warner’s ridiculous decision, well, we can choose not to have anything to do with it — the first two films are pretty decent, and there’s always the script if you don’t want to watch the third movie. Even if you aren’t interested in the script, you’d still be able to read fan-fiction or write your own. That’s up to you to decide. If you genuinely want to leave — if you’re too upset and need to get away for a while — that’s also okay. I’ve seen one writer angry because she saw people leaving for just this one reason, and I can sort of understand her anger, even if I think that that is completely unnecessary: leave, and this fandom will probably never feel the same to you again. Time will pass while you search for something new to love, and you might miss out on a lot of amazing artwork and fiction. Staying can be worth it, but the end decision is up to you. As for me, I will always be here. I’ve liked GGAD for two years, and only recently started writing fan-fiction, but I’ve seen so many brilliant works in both Chinese and English, and still think that love is a great motivator. You never know what you can accomplish with love. 
> 
> Life is already difficult enough this year. This is my personal frustration leaking through somewhat, but the fact still remains that I haven’t stirred a step from Shanghai in over three months, and I am terribly homesick. This is why I cling so tightly to writing. It’s something that can be done anywhere. We’ve had two new cases recently — something to do with a virus strain on the packaging of imported seafood, but overall it’s still pretty safe. The same thing happened in Beijing in early July, so people know what to expect and how to deal with it. We can take off our masks on the streets and in the classroom, but we still need to keep them on when taking public transportation. Our school has this ridiculous rule where you have to quarantine for two weeks if you ever leave Shanghai, which explains why I am stuck here until the winter holidays, but it doesn’t explain why most other schools and businesses are no longer sticking to this rule. The one good thing that may come out of this is that I will probably have much more time to focus on storytelling, now that my final hopes are dashed. I’m slowly working out the plot in this one, and I think I know where it’s going next, but we’ll hurry through the dry background first.

_ Hogwarts, Great Hall, Scotland, September 1925 _

The Sorting Hat knew that she was special from the moment it was plopped onto her eager head.

She had gone to it with the same accursed determination that dogs the footsteps of all intellectuals with secrets buried deep inside; she could not help it, any more than she could help winding her soft fingers ceaselessly through her sheet of dark, shining hair as she awaited her turn at the stool. The hems of her new robes were a mite too long, and its edges would sweep against the tips of her loafers with each step she took, as though lovingly determined to see her trip and bite the dust, so she gathered them up in one fist as she ascended those steps, and aimed scornful invective at the audacity of the wizards who had tittered at this display. She had not belonged in their world; they were as foreign to her eyes as the chunks of dead coral littered along a beach in the Barbados, but she had known of their existence, and therefore did not fear them. If one must don a mask of bravado in order to blend in with a crowd of buffoons, then so be it; she was of a finer substance they were, and knew it quite well.

The Hat was frayed, and so fragile-looking that she wondered for an instant if it would not crumble as it was lifted from its cushion, but the elegant fingers of the wizard holding it did not falter as the blackened edge fell over her eyes. Then she could no longer see him, only the dim outlines of the dais lined with ancient planks, and it cost her some of that warming courage. 

She craned her neck to see him, and though he was standing three feet away, she could sense his gentle smile raising the corner of his sculpted lips.

A voice at her left ear startled her, but she was not necessarily surprised.  “ Like him, much? ” 

Her face flushed.  “ A bit nosy, much? ”  she enquired.

The hat chuckled, and the high color on her cheeks deepened further, but she could not deny that its amusement was well-founded. She did like him, much. 

And she wanted that to be the sole reason to account for her presence here.  _ Kindly Sort me where I want to go, and mind you don ’ _ _t breathe a word of this to anyone._

If the Hat took any offense at her brusqueness, it refused to show it.  “ Plucky child. ”  Its tone did grow a shade more serious as it turned to ransack the insides of her mind.  “ Yes... Gryffindor would suit you  —  you have plenty of courage, almost to the point of foolishness, I see. But neither are you unwise. Your thirst for knowledge will serve you well, I think. Ravenclaw might be where you ’ ll flourish; I don ’ t speak of Slytherin. You are clearly not the scheming type. ”

_ Oh? _ She thought,  _ Perhaps you don ’ t know me yet. You certainly wouldn ’ t send me to Ravenclaw if you do . _

The Hat grew a trifle impatient.  “ I Sort by merit of character, child. I do not Sort my students based on their lusts and whims. ”  It sounded as though it was pursing its nonexistent lips.

Score .  “ But I am not your student, ”  she said out loud.  “ You don ’ t get to decide for me where I ’ ll go. I came here all this way to see him  —  and I ’ ll do that from the Gryffindor common room window if I have to, thank you very much. ” 

She could almost feel the Hat weighing its next words, its ragged threads gaping open to reveal the slippery fabric beneath the brim, and she had to fight to keep a triumphant smile hidden from plain sight. It would be a terrible giveaway if the Hat lost its composure completely and shouted out  “ AZKABAN! ”  to its eager audience  —  she might go down in history as the first student ever to be expelled before she ’ d been in school for an hour  —  but it still seemed to have retained a few shreds of reason, and was gracious enough to refrain from condemning her to lifelong imprisonment. Several moments had elapsed since the Hat was placed on her head, and the Great Hall was growing restless, its quiet exterior deteriorating as students turned aside to gossip among themselves or tap their gold forks against the linen tablecloth. She might have felt slightly wounded by their blatant disregard for the most tumultuous moment of the entire Sorting Ceremony, but then, they could not exactly hear the furious diatribe echoing inside the Hat as it muttered darkly to itself, cursing creatively against impudent students who put on airs and thought of doing inappropriate things to their teachers. Her fingers curled impulsively around the harsh leather seat of the stool, but she waited, and kept her peace.

Finally it capitulated.  _ Very well then, _ it told her.  _ I ’ ll send you where you want to go, but this storyline may prove to be beyond you control. You will see him, look at him, and speak with him. You will struggle and you will grieve, and wonder what part you might have played that would have saved him. But you of all people know the consequences of meddling in others ’  affairs, and your craving may well be your own undoing. _ Its voice was subdued, quiet even, but she could hear the thinly-veiled threat buried beneath its mask of well-meant civility, and understood its unspoken message.  _ You should not be here at all . _

It awakened in her a twinge of uncertainty, but she brushed it aside, and made to pluck off the annoying piece of headgear before it even had time to shrill out  “ Gryffindor! ”  at the top of its lungs, and sighs of relief erupted all over the Great Hall as the Deputy Headmaster hurried forward to place the Hat on the head of its next victim. She darted a quick glance upwards as she brushed past him, the midnight black of her robes rustling over the velvety hems of his light grey trousers, but he had only an encouraging smile to spare for her as his attention was once again riveted on the First Year seated shakily where she had been a moment before, and then she was striding past him to the Gryffindor table, settling herself gingerly on one end of a narrow bench. The wizened old man sitting in the Headmaster ’ s throne-like chair clapped once or twice, and a few of the teachers on either side followed his example, but the applause from the rest of the school was sparse, and their eyes followed her curiously.

She did not mind. They were wizards, and this was the 1920s, a degenerate time and age she no more belonged to than a seagull is at home in a desert, and she could not blame them for their guarded demeanors. She bore the unmistakable air of one who has lived at length amongst Muggles, and looked almost uncannily beautiful, with her creamy skin and inky eyes offset by a cascade of glossy black waves, flowing smoothly over her back like a silky cape. A few older Gryffindors grinned at her tentatively, and she smiled back at them, but the majority of her attention still lingered upon the supple form of the red-haired wizard standing on the dais next to the row of first years, and she watched him hungrily out of the corner of one eye.

He was reading names off of a roll of parchment, and the tip of one slim finger traced each word through before he read it out loud. Her eyes followed his pale fingertips, taking note of each rounded nail before sliding up to rest on his gold-rimmed spectacles.  _ Parchment _ _,_ she thought, amusement leaking into the pool of exasperation expanding within her chest,  _ they really are all for the classics _ _._ She studied him for a while longer, hoping that he might raise his head to meet her gaze, but when he did actually roll up the sheet of parchment and made to step off the dais by the end of the Sorting, her eyes dropped and she directed her attention onto the dainty tableware lying in front of her instead.

She was far hungrier than she looked, and Headmaster Dippet ’ s welcoming speech registered quite faintly in one ear and out the other. Her stomach growled (the Licorice Wands she ’ d gotten from the trolley witch on the Hogwarts Express had long since been digested), and she noted with irritation the quivering, fumbling voice of the ancient wizard as he rambled on at length about nothing in particular. She fixed on her eyes once more on the red-haired professor  —  he had seated himself at the right hand of the rambling wizard, and was nodding politely at the end of each sentence as the Headmaster rattled off what seemed to be an endless array of school rules off the top of his bald head. The murmur of voices rose as the medley of young children in the Great Hall lost their interest in his speech, and he wandered off into nothing, waving vaguely at the ceiling as his voice trailed away, and lowered himself once more in his throne-like chair.

A few of the teachers on either side clapped, Dumbledore included, but most simply looked relieved, and she could well sympathize with them.

The food, when it finally appeared, alleviated some of her doubts about this educational facility. Those wizards did know how to cook... either that, or they have some very competent help for hire, judging by the level of imbecility she had seen so far in some of the Wizarding World ’ s individuals. She heaped her plate with chips and fried chicken, and swung back two goblets of pumpkin juice first thing. It tasted rather thin, but was more flavorful than warm water at least. 

The level of chatter around her increased as she began digging though the mountain of wings and gravy. Someone touched her gently on the back.

“ Hi. ”  It was a girl a head shorter than she was, with pink satin bows tying together the ends of her long, mousy braids. Her eyes flicked tentatively between her assailant ’ s eyes and the floor, smiling shyly. She cut the girl off before she could continue with the formalities of an official introduction, however  —  she was simply not in the mood for this, to be  here of all places, acting like an eleven-year-old. 

“ Yes, hi and all that  —  I know your name and it ’ s not nice to meet you! ”  she snapped, and the minuscule child gaped at her response. A twinge of guilt tried to poke her, but she swatted its hand aside  —  unnecessary emotions must be castrated entirely if she was to survive the next seven years in a place like  _ this . _

She glared at the girl until the other grew discomfited and ran off. The other First Years gaped at her likewise as she returned her attention to the chicken, now cold and greasy and no longer appetizing. She hated having to push people away, wounding innocents right, left, and center in her struggle for survival, but she did not feel that she could deal with the insipid woes of ordinary children and retain her sanity at the same time. A pair of blue eyes burned into the back of her head, and she knew that he was watching, because he had caught that exchange and most certainly did not approve  —  but she cared nothing for that. She had not made her journey for the sole purpose of adhering to his every moral standard. There might be time enough for that, later, when all her work had been sorted out, and she would take care to seal the corners of her mind up tightly before it can happen. 

The commotion about her rose and fell like a tidal wave, but she was solidly anchored to shore, and as she ate her way steadily though the mashed parsnips, the boiled potatoes, the rice pudding spiked with whiskey and the peach cobbler topped with whipped cream, she took in the wash of noises and sifted through it until only the most vital bits of information was audible  —  the whispered discussions among the teachers as they discussed Grindelwald ’ s apparent leave of absence. Phrases such as  _ been a year ,  nobody ’ s seen him ,  international menace ,  he ’ s not dead _ and  _ he ’ s up to no good, mark my words _ drifted into her ear, while her fork never faltered in its pathway from plate to mouth. She noticed that Dumbledore never took part in any of the whispered conversations, and she would have liked to lift her head and examine him, but that would run the risk of meeting his gaze, and she was not prepared to see whatever he might think of her yet.

She set down her fork with a sigh of satisfaction, and sat with her hands folded until all the scraps had disappeared. Her eyes were about to venture upward when darkness enveloped her, and she jerked herself awake from a twenty-year-old dream.

The pillow was soaked with sweat, so she turned it upside down to search for a drier spot.  September 1925 .  The day when everything started . She knew how that dream would end, as surely she knows how this one  might have ended, but her goal is to harass inevitability until it changed its course, and to that end, every possible mean is allowed.  _ How do you think this ends, Professor? How do you like this new story? It will different. I promise. _

The pillow made no reply as she burrowed deeper into it, in search of an interrupted dream, but it heard her nonetheless, and sweated on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Comment if you liked it, or if you have questions (I’ll answer as much as I can), and the next chapter may arrive over the weekend, since it’s almost done, though I can’t guarantee it for certain.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus awakens, but before that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and sorry for not being able to post this sooner! I’ve been remiss, I know, but with the number of triggering things that’s happened this week, I was really struggling with trying to function at all. Language broke down at some point while I was trying to finish this, which just made me want to finish it more, so I’m actually not too much behind schedule. I hope you like this new chapter.  
> Also, a word about this work, and others to come: when I started it in early August, I wasn’t exactly looking to write a super-long fic. I was thinking about a 20-chapter thing, but the more I wrote, the more ideas I had, and the longer it started to get. It’s still getting longer, and I’m worried that I won’t get it done in the next year or so. Stupid, I know, but still. One way to fix this is by writing one-shots and other pieces, so I’ve decided that I will be taking prompts from you guys, if you’re interested in seeing something new. I can’t promise that every prompt will be answered in less than a week, though I’ll definitely try to respond as quickly as possible. Besides, it’ll help keep my mind off things. Come prompt me on my Tumblr blog mephistophilia k-12, or do it here in the comment section if you like. Both methods are fine, though Tumblr is recommended, since I can respond directly without having to deal with the knotty formatting here that I can’t really fix.  
> Okay, enough blather from me. I know things are getting really confused here in this story (I feel like every new chapter I write just adds to the groundwork), so ask away if something is too vague! Comments are forever welcome, as is constructive criticism.

He had been lying inert upon that bed for three days, and Gellert Grindelwald had seldom tasted fear so sharply.

Fear was beneath him, of course. He had no time for such weakness, such impromptu slips of manner, when the mask of perfection he presented to the world at large slides out of place and yields his true face just a fraction. Those who knew him best would recognize the disturbance within his mind, much faster than he might realize it himself, but since you could count on the fingers of half a hand the number of people who may claim that they know him, that observation alone serves little purpose. 

Albus would have known  —  naturally. That was the sole thought that occupied the mind of the Dark Wizard, though he gave no outward sign of being discomfited during the seventy-two hours his lover had been out of his senses. At first the Sleeping Draught had worked exactly as it should, and he had had no trouble whatsoever bearing Albus back to his rooms, but once he had laid the inert form of his lover back onto the bed and was attempting to revive him, it became apparent that something had gone terribly wrong  —  the paleness of that wasted face remained ethereally calm and detached as Gellert tried spell after spell to break him out of this accursed stupor, but no incantation would wake him. The Elder Wand lay heavily in his palm, almost thickening his mind with its dead weight, but Albus slept on regardless, far past the usual durance of a few sips of potion. Nor was that the worst of it. Half a day into his slumber, Albus had started twitching madly all of a sudden, his features convulsing as he clutched at the air above his head, searching for something that his closed eyes could not see. His contortions lasted for a full hour before they ended as suddenly as they had begun, during which Gellert had been forced to tie his wrists to the bedpost before he could do himself any frenzied mischief, and the cords fastened to him had carved deep ridges into his tender skin. 

Gellert had waited another hour before untying him, seated on the edge of the bed and watching his lover intently, mismatched eyes almost boring holes into that thin face. He waited patiently at first, alarmed but not afraid, but when too much time had passed and patience had ceased to be a virtue, worry gave way to fear. Its taste was metallic and biting, like a mouthful of frozen blood, and as Albus stirred restlessly, murmuring words that faded into nothing before he could catch them, he soon learned to loathe it. Fear had never made an imprint on him before  —  he had felt it too briefly in his earlier years for it to make any sort of lasting impression, and the well-deserved esteem he held for himself had ensured that it never stayed long during its visits. He got his first taste at age sixteen, when he saw the broken body of Ariana Dumbledore lying on the floor, her limbs twisted at bizarre angles, and he ate again at fear ’ s table almost thirty years later, the night after his Parisian rally, when he had groped at the sudden emptiness on the left side of his chest and his hands touched nothing but torn cloth and the end of a broken chain. He could not clear the image of Albus ’  devastation from his mind, no more than he could help that tightening sensation that gripped his air-pipes in a vice and whispered that _the_ _ blood _ _ pact is gone. _ That was fear in its purest form, and both times it was Albus that brought it to him, steaming hot and sickening.

_ Albus. _ The name alone made him more frightened than he would be willing to admit. Not out of any possibility that the frail, unconscious man could do to him any unexpected harm, but he could freely admit that the thought of meeting those clear blue eyes again, full of accusation and disappointment, proved more than what he was ready to stomach. He waited at the side of the bed with both fear and trepidation, and soon could no longer tell if he truly wanted Albus to wake or not.

_ He is making of me a madman. _ Oh, but what nonsense was he thinking? He wanted Albus to wake,  _ needed  _ him to even, for the longer this unnatural sleep lasted, the smaller their chances of reconciliation. He needed to explain that he had played no part in Theseus Scamander ’ s untimely death, and that he had already chastised his Acolytes for their unfitting eagerness to kill, and he whispered those colorless words into the crook of Albus ’  neck as nightfall came and he nestled close, but the words themselves sounded hollow as they fell on uncaring ears. 

The nights were kinder to them both. Albus seemed less unsettled when the darkness enveloped his room and drew a welcome curtain around their bed, but perhaps it was really Gellert ’ s proximity that soothed him. Gellert himself did not know. He would wrap an arm around the smaller man, and bury his nose in that head of glorious hair, and feel the other ’ s fragile rib-cage pulsating rhythmically beneath his touch. It never ceased to amaze him, this living, breathing being he could hold and stroke, more powerful than any other human he had previously met and yet turning into putty at his momentary whims. They had lain like that before, just the two of them, in Bathilda ’ s hayloft and in the family barn, neighbors in name and more to each other than words could possibly say. The nights were kind in Godric ’ s Hollow, for with the sun ’ s absence came a blessed coolness that he used to try to grab, giddily relieved at the temporary respite from midsummer heat. He had not been used to heat before this  —  it was not something that plagued him often when he lived in an enchanted castle in Northern Europe, with glaciers grazing their front doors in winter, and it was not something that he associated with the warmth of another ’ s body. At sixteen he had recoiled from the idea of letting anyone into his heart, into a place where perpetual cold reigned and he was forever plotting for  the greater good.

Then Albus came, with his fiery hair blazing like an autumn canopy, and Gellert had known what it was like to be complete. The warmth was intoxicating, the fullness addictive, and as he played the part of a caring and dependable companion, he gradually felt himself evolving into that role, as a predator discovers at the end of the hunt that it had become the prey. He could freely admit that life without Albus was not something to be imagined, nor was it anything he would  _ want _ to imagine, but there were some things which he was not yet ready to say out loud, and this was one of them.

What is there on the face of this earth that is harder to articulate than a belated apology, or a reluctant confession of love? You do not wring words like these out from anyone ’ s lips; you do not wring them at all. They are the master that directs our speech and makes us fools, and the only role you will ever play before them is that of servility, pure and abject and willingly self-destructive. 

That was something he soon came to divine, and it, like the numerous murders he had first committed when he was not yet fully out of boyhood, sat ill in his stomach, so he pushed it from his mind and turned his thoughts to Albus instead, Albus and nothing else. He could not stay forever and keep watch over an ailing man, however, so at daybreak he would slip off, his attire ever so slightly crumpled from sitting hours at a stretch in a cramped position, and tend to whatever matters that had cropped up during the night. His Acolytes were as able as they ever were, and between them they kept his schemes running along quite  smoothly , so that nobody need scrutinize him closely and discover that the Dark Lord ’ s mind is elsewhere. What might have tripped and cut short the reign of a lesser man was not enough to fell him, fortunately, and his influence continued to spread, his ideals fanning the flames that fed his empire and soldered its edges tightly sealed. It should have been everything he could have hoped for.

_ Only it isn ’ t. This is not enough. This will never be enough, while he sleeps and I wake. _

So he waited for him to waken likewise. Thrice a day he mixed honey into warm milk, propping open his lover ’ s mouth to dribble it in with a small spoon, stroking the other ’ s throat until he swallowed the life-giving liquid. There would be times when no amount of patient coaxing could induce any reaction from the unconscious man, however, and then the cream-colored fluid would leak from the corners of Albus ’  lips, where he would quickly wipe them away before they could soil the pillows. He ordered his men to keep a constant watch over the Magizoologist imprisoned in the bowels of Nurmengard, and sent mercenaries out to find Tina Goldstein, who was presumably alive and still missing. He waved off Rosier ’ s solicitude when she tried to probe into the affairs still troubling him, his threatening demeanor subtly hidden, but sinisterly doled out to discourage her from continuing down her path. She was artful, observant, powerful, and determined  —  all the qualities one may find in Albus Dumbledore if they cared enough to look, but she was not Albus. Never has been, never will be.

It was on the morning of the second day that he noticed a dark spot gradually appearing on Albus ’  forehead, like a livid bruise marring the marble of his skin, no larger than his thumbnail and perfectly round. He did his utmost to remove it, but the same instincts that warned him that this sleep in itself is unnatural told him likewise that this mark could bode no good, and its dull, sickly color deepened the more he attempted to erase it. His lover had stirred fretfully until his attempts finally abated, so Gellert was forced to satisfy himself with keeping a careful eye on that mark instead, which grew no bigger but stubbornly remained.

He approached Albus ’  bedside again late into the third evening, when the last rays of sunlight were glinting from beyond the outlines of the mountaintops, coating their snowy ridges in hues that resembled the disks of daisies. He took his customary seat at the side of the bed, the mattress sinking lower and carrying Albus a few inches into the indention. Hardly a minute had passed before the smaller man stirred, lifting his arms free from the comforters as he lazily stretched, as if awakening from a half-hour nap instead of a three-day coma. Gellert watched him intently, almost drunk on the incredible grace of his movements, his breath caught short as blue eyes centered with irises the shade of frozen lakes opened to greet him. His hands reached out involuntarily to touch the cloud of dark red hair spread across the pillow, and his fingertips had almost made contact with it when a well-aimed Severing Charm found its target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am evil. Sorry.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicion drives you mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super busy, so I won’t talk much this time. This story is progressing here... I think. Tell me your thoughts if you like, and as always, my Tumblr mephistophilia-k12 is open to questions, requests, and prompts.

A spray of blood blossomed across the pillow, like the petals of a crushed rose tossed about on a November gale, and it almost sent him staggering backwards but for the timely hand he raised in defense, and the Shield Charm that came of of its own volition. 

As it was, the hardened layer of air between them bore the brunt of the spell, and only a series of light lacerations were opened across his neck, red tears staining his coat collar as Gellert steadied himself by backpedaling a few steps. A sharp sting of pain made the instinctual urge to retaliate rise like bile, and his first thought was to cast a curse powerful enough to shred the body of the man on the bed, but he fought that urge and reined it in with what little that remained of his senses  —  Albus was not himself. He had been unconscious for three days and suffering for many more.  _ I cannot wound him any deeper than he already has been. _

He regained his footing, the harsh noise of his inhalations grating on his own ears as he roughly stopped the bleeding, and sealed most of the cuts as he approached his lover again. Albus had risen somewhat from the pile of blankets; the topmost button of his shirt collar was open, and his hair seemed to burn in the fading sunlight, but it was that strange mark on his brow standing starkly against his pale skin that caught the eye and riveted it, an unnatural adornment that made the azure of his irises glitter like twin suns. The back of Gellert ’ s neck tingled, but he pushed that feeling to the hindquarters of his brain.

They stood like that for a moment, the two of them caught in this crude staring contest, the redhead ’ s torso tottering an inch or so to either side as his sense of balance returned to him. He still looked badly shaken, Gellert noted, disorientation scrawled across his features as his gaze traveled around the room, settling onto the Dark Wizard like a coat of many colors. His eyes were not his own; they were too wide, too blue, and the pupils were too dark and rounded for Gellert ’ s liking, though they would have seemed at home on the face of a fugitive.  _ And have I not made as much of him? _

His grip on the Elder Wand tightened without realizing it, and that unnerving blue gaze swiveled from his face and onto the thin length of wood carved with midnight berries.  _ Albus. _ Then came a spark of recognition.

He thought he had said that out loud, and perhaps he did, but the red-haired man gave no sign of having heard.  “ Al, ”  he said, raising his voice. This time, it registered.

The mist cleared somewhat from his lover ’ s eyes, and that frightening blankness fell away. He was so relieved at this, there was barely room to register the hardness creeping into Albus ’  eyes, though it was alarming to see that blueness slowly freeze over into eerie chips of ice.

His lover fell back onto the pillow, his lashes fluttering shut once more as he exhaled, as if he could not bear to look at the Dark Lord. The thought made his fingers clench still tighter. He stepped closer to the bed, the page-long explanation he had been rehearsing for three days suddenly wiped from his mind, and he found himself at a total loss for words for the first time in nearly half a century. What does one say at a time like this? What  could one possibly say? He thought of an apology, bland words threaded together to remedy a situation he did not believe himself responsible for, and inwardly winced at the idea.

But he had to try.

Albus was still refusing to look at him. That was just as well. He carefully positioned himself at one side of the bed, close to his quarry yet not uncomfortably intrusive, and lightly brushed a hand against Albus ’  cheek, wrapping his palm around the finely-structured bones when his lover did not attempt to push him away. Cool, slippery skin tensed at his touch, but he sensed no overt display of revulsion  —  whatever malignancy that had possessed the smaller man when he first came to seems to have disappeared, though he was still painfully thin, and his skin was as cold and clammy as silk ruined by seawater. 

“ I am sorry. ”  The words tumbled out, faster than he had intended them to be, as if mere speed alone could cover the atrocity of the past few days. His forefinger slipped downwards, past the crumpled collar of his companion ’ s shirt, across soft flesh rendered cream-like in the dim room.  “ I am sorry, ”  he repeated, and these short, clipped syllables softened and smoothed the harsh tones of his voice, almost boneless in the twilight as he breathed them into Albus ’  ear.

The professor turned to face him, weariness etched deep into cerulean orbs.  “ And what next, Gellert? What next after your apology? Do we rest until the morning, and return again to ripping out each other ’ s throats when the sun rises? ”

“ No, my love, ”  he was appalled at the way Albus had assumed to know his motives, and more furious still at himself for allowing such a thought to fester through the effects of his own hubris and idiocy, but he was not quite ready to admit that. Later, perhaps, but not just yet.  “ No, it will not happen again. I give you my word on that. ”  His hand moved to cup the other ’ s face, but Albus had other ideas, and he shuffled aside this time, evading the physical contact.

_ “ Your word? ”  _ He shoved at Gellert, reaching for a glass sitting on the nightstand (it was the one Grindelwald had held to his lips the day they were first reunited in this room),  “ Your  _ word, _ Grindelwald, is worth less than  _ this. ”  _ And he hurled it against the varnished floor, where it shattered into tiny fragments.

The sudden clatter made both of them wince. For a second, Albus seemed almost stricken by this unseemly outburst, and there was a flash of something resembling guilt in his eyes, but it was too fleeting to ascertain, and Gellert could not begrudge him that little moment of lost composure. He simply flicked his wand at the mess on the ground, where the shards gathered themselves into a heap and disappeared without further comment. The crisp noise of sharp edges rubbing against each other restored a few shreds of his companion ’ s reason, and his pale features flushed he settled back into the sea of sheets and comforters.

“ I don ’ t deny that. ”  He pressed on,  “ I don ’ t deny any of it. You have been brutally treated ever since I brought you here, and nothing I do now can remedy it. But I will go no further from here. You have my word. ”

Even to that, Albus made no response, though he fancied that his posture had relaxed a little. Taking advantage of this temporary opening, he continued,  “ And before you ask, your  —  student —  has not been harmed either,  Liebe. He is alive, as all of his friends are as well. ”

_ But not his brother. _ The same thought seemed to have caught Albus as well, and he was afraid that that was where the conversation would head to next, to a place where his best preparations were child ’ s play and no amount of words could prove otherwise, but for the moment, Albus did not seem interested in broaching the topic. It would come up again later, of course  —  of that he was certain.

They sat for a while in silence, the ice slowly melting between them, wintry slush turning into muddied ponds, sediment swirling thickly in midair. He would have been content to simply keep the silence unbroken, the stillness between them complete  —  there was too much to begin with and nowhere to start, when his presence alone spoke volumes and none of it was what he really wanted to say. He only moved closer as Albus stared blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes following the smooth corners where cement meets granite, the tiny carved vines on the wooden panels ensnaring biased roses in their close embrace. 

His lover ’ s voice jolted him back into reality. 

“ What did you put in that potion? ”  It was a question of gravity, and he tensed as Albus turned to face him.  _ Ah. That again. _

He kept his face carefully blank.  “ Nothing, my love, though you were out for three days. I was wondering about it myself. ”

A shade of anger marred Albus ’  brow.  _ “ Nothing, _ then? It was  nothing that plunged me into nightmares for three days? ”  A hand drifted upwards to touch the dark bruise on his forehead, but the spot was obviously tender, and he winced as soon as his fingers made contact. That pain drained the edge from his voice.  “ It was not  _ nothing, _ Gellert  —  I am not yet weakened to the point where a single shock will half-kill me. ”  The weariness in his eyes alarmed the Dark Wizard.  “ Something was added, and it put visions into my head. What was it? ”

He had no answer to that.  _ Nightmares? Visions? _ Several ideas began taking shape in his brain, but each was as unlikely as the next, and he searched amid the blankets until he found Albus ’  left wrist. The skin there was still ridged and marred from his struggles on the first day, and his pulse was thready, ragged and uneven.  “ I don ’ t know, my love. That was not supposed to happen. ” 

Blue eyes, now lucid and quick, studied him closely. He could feel Albus probing into his words, weighing each component to see if it had been lying, and whatever conclusion he arrived at seemed to satisfy him  —  there was a glimmer of resignation as he accepted Gellert ’ s reply. It turned to wariness in the next instant, however, as both of them faced the same unanswered question.  _ Who then, if not you? _

“ Show me, ”  he said quietly. What Albus saw during his period of unconsciousness had visibly shaken him, and it was imperative that he knew who it was that had drugged his companion. A quick list of possible candidates ran through his head, but nothing was yet certain, which was why he needed to see.

“ No. ”  The refusal came as no surprise  —  Albus ’  wounds were far too raw to allow him entry into his mind. Gellert had not really expected him to give his consent either, but still that syllable stung. 

It became a physical sensation as he glanced down to see the professor ’ s delicate fingertips tracing the lacerations on his neck, the dark circle on his brow especially prominent as his blue eyes again lost focus. He gripped the other ’ s hand and forcibly removed it, applying just enough pressure to still these unusual movements, and as his lover raised his head to look at him, there came again that eerie tingling at the nape of his neck, this time blatant enough so he could no longer ignore it. It gave him a sense of being watched, as if another was gazing out from the depths of that celestial blue, and the room had lost some of its warmth as night deepened.

Abruptly he dropped Albus ’  hand, and the sensation disappeared as soon as their contact broke. He wandlessly lit a small fire in the hearth to ward off some of the chill, and changed the subject as well.  “ All right. We will speak of it later, if you wish. Do you want anything? I will have the house-elves bring some tea if you like  —  or is it food that you want first? ”

There was a pause.  “ Tea, please, if it ’ s not too much trouble. And a book while you ’ re at it. ”  His voice was tepid, but Gellert was glad to hear it. He arose to summon a house-elf.

“ Oh, and Gellert? ”  The sound his lover made was wistful, and there was a playfulness to it that stopped him short.  “ None of what has happened so far was supposed to happen. Just so we ’ re both clear on that. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you liked it, and read the Tumblr version if you can’t stand the weird spacing here! I know I can’t...


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning is an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the last chapter I can finish before Christmas, since things are so busy right now that I can’t figure out which task to finish first. I do, however, want to either draw or write something for Christmas — a fanart, perhaps, or maybe a Grindeldore prompt? Which would you guys prefer? As always, my Tumblr mephistophilia-k12 is open to questions (I post a lot of fanart there as well...)

_If this is hell,_ he mused,  _ then I must have been engulfed in its bowels. _

It was a thought that haunts him still, long after he was able to stand unsteadily on his own two feet, long after his wasted legs had regrown enough muscle to support their shaky weight, and long after the skin on his limp hands had rounded taut and smooth again. His surroundings might suggest otherwise  —  the crisp brightness of fresh mountain air did not suggest much of gloom and shadow  —  but it hung over him nonetheless, like a bothersome insect demanding constant attention with its irremediable buzzing, until he felt halfway tempted to scratch his own face off.

_ No. It hangs over both of us. _ He looked askance at his companion, standing not three feet away (and in doing so had turned aside so quickly that the blood rose fast to his forehead), and was immediately exposed to a dizzying rush of vertigo that had him swaying where he stood. His body tilted backwards before his limbs could strike a balance, and the pebbles on the ground rushed to meet him... until a warm, solid hand caught him by one arm and lent him just enough support for him to regain his footing.

He shot a brief glance at the owner of said hand, and a spark of gratitude seemed to flicker within the purity of his two cerulean orbs, but it retreated as fast as it came, leaving behind a void that glared out accusations.

Grindelwald ’ s fingers tightened momentarily on his newly-repaired biceps. His mouth parted, the scanty platinum hairs on his upper lip rising to emit a gentle rebuke that never came.  “ Take care, ”  he said softly, muscles working as though trying to combine a flood of unsaid things into those two words. That was all, and it was enough for the present.

He took a seat on a nearby bench, and drew the smaller man to his lap, settling the two of them comfortably onto the pile of velvet cushions facing the valley beneath. Nurmengard, proudly standing on a high mountaintop, loomed behind them, its lavender eaves bathed in an ethereal glow. The afternoon light, soft and treacherous, wound its fingers about them both, enclosing them in a strange embrace, as though linking together two pillars from the opposite ends of the earth. 

The redhead ’ s body was stiff, with reluctance or suspicion he did not know, and he sat numbly for the best part of a minute before jerking himself upright, moving a few feet to the left, and settling on the other end of the garden bench. Gellert ’ s lap was gloved in fine dark leather, its form-fitting cut flattering even without the lavish embroidery in peacock-blue covering the junction of his hips, and the touch of cool leather against the grey velvet of his suit was different from what he remembered. 

He thought he saw Grindelwald give a noncommittal shrug out of the corner of his eye, but it could have been a trick of the light, filtered through the canopy of interwoven leaves above. The warmth splintered as it fell in specks about their feet, and the arm ’ s length between them was no worse than a bottomless chasm.

A pine tree guarded the space behind them. It stood looming in the garden ’ s furthermost corner, a spot where the ground swelled beneath its roots, the layers of charms covering the soil a vain excuse for the bulge it raised as it sought a kiss from the sun. It resembled a certain tree the two of them had sat beneath in Godric ’ s Hollow, a little ways past Bathilda ’ s barn, and Albus wondered briefly if this was the penance he had been hoping for  —  to see a reminder of what was and used to be, and realize that it was beyond his reach.

The idea pained him. It gnawed at the space within his chest, an ever-widening expanse where there was once room for any number of nameless, faceless people. Somewhere in his mind was a little grave he had dug for them, all sorrow and loss and a vague, dull regret he could not articulate  —  and when did he last speak of anything? The idea pained him, but it was an indistinct throb, one he could almost ignore  —  and did not ignorance taste marginally better than confession at present? He had not spoken a word until Grindelwald finally relented, granting him leave to wander around the castle, and he had not spoken since. The idea of speaking pained him, and so he pushed that to the back of his brain along with all these blurred silhouettes, and their figures smudged the corners of his eyes when he wept for them at night.

At night... ah, but Gellert was there also, wasn ’ t he? At night and during the day, it never mattered which  —  his shadow was always there, circling around Albus, tender and caring and suffused with a beauty so blindingly bright that Albus had no choice but to reach for him, the only source of light in his now barren world. It was what the Dark Lord wanted, he knew  —  to surround him with a nectar so sweet that he willingly drowns himself in its depths, before waking up to find that everyone else had abandoned him, except for that one embrace perpetually open to him. He could freely admit that it was indeed a master-stroke, if what he had guessed of Grindelwald ’ s plans did not deviate too far from actual fact. It was the one thought he dared not push aside.

Gellert ’ s light blond spikes glinted as he tilted his head in contemplation. One arm was thrown over the back of his seat, his fingers almost curled halfway around Albus ’  shoulder. Almost. There was an inch or two of distance still, and he seemed in no hurry to cover it, judging by the lazy smile he gave to his companion.  “ What are you thinking of? ”

He tensed at the query, though it was nothing offensive. That was the way of their conversations lately  —  Gellert would talk to him, of this and that and other matters, and nothing that came from his lips could be deemed important. In any other situation it would have been called  _ noise,  _ but Albus had found early on that he preferred it to complete silence. One word, and he was all rapt attention within, though he kept his face carefully neutral even as he drank in every sentence, and the Dark Lord himself often could not tell if he was listening or not. It made little difference. The mark on his brow burned ceaselessly, never expanding past the size of a thumbnail, its colors shifting between various hues of black and purple, perfectly round and threatening. His teeth would clench when it pained him, only to relax a second later as it released him from its grip. 

Now the mark lay dormant, however, and the two of them had a moment to themselves. For all of Gellert ’ s solicitude, he had a continent to rule, a dozen Ministries to supervise, a tenacious but faltering opposition to weed out, and the ongoing war in the Muggle world to occupy him. Albus was left to his own devices on most days, staring into the empty walls of his room whenever his eyes grew tired of training themselves onto the pages of a book.

He searched his mind for an easy answer, but the words that bubbled upwards were a reflection of his tangled thoughts.  “ I wasn ’ t aware that it might be anything of interest. ”

His companion raised an elegant eyebrow.  _ Careful, Dumbledore, your wits are leaving you. _ It was too close of a moment to brush aside his skepticism, and so Albus weighed his next words.  “ Fine. I was thinking of that hilltop in Godric ’ s Hollow, back when we first met. I was remembering the way the sunlight used to dapple the pine needles gold. ” 

_ Gold. _ Gold like the soft balmy air of a lazy afternoon, gold like the wavy threads escaping from Ariana ’ s thick rope of hair, gold like the glow of Gellert ’ s skin as they lay basking in each other ’ s presence.  “ Not that you would remember any of it yourself, I should think. ”  _ Each other ’ s presence. _

He had not meant for that to tumble out. It was a surprise, unwelcome and uninvited, a breach to the delicate balance they had somehow struck the night he ’ d awakened, and he knew that Gellert would see it as such.

What he said next surprised him still further, however.  “ And in that you are wrong, my love. I do remember. ”  The hand dangling two inches from the small of his back slipped forward and caressed him.  “ You judge me far too harshly. ”

“ Have you not earned it? ” 

The Dark Wizard smiled thinly, but there was no malice to it, no hint of threat or annoyance. It troubled him, this newfound patience and acceptance. Albus could almost deceive himself into thinking that he did indeed care.  “ Only by virtue of what you see as _sin,_ liebling. My only crime was to fail in my persuasion of you. ”

_ Lies. _ It had to be lies, since no truth could ever sound so warped and factual, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone.  _ I was never your greatest failing. As you were mine. _

He had not spoken out loud, and his mind had been firmly shielded since the day he ’ d been brought to Nurmengard, yet still Gellert ’ s lips curled.  “ You think I am lying, do you not? Such distrust of the one who knows you better than any other living being. We knew each other ’ s thoughts back then, without ever having to look for vindication, and I remember all of that. ”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm and smelling of magic as it swept across Albus ’  tender skin.  “ I remember placing my head in your lap beneath the great fir trees on the edge of the forest and letting you comb through my hair. I remember holding you in my great-aunt ’ s hayloft during our first night of love, when you were too sore and tired to stir a step. I remember just as much as you do, if not more  —  I was the one who remembered not to break the bloodpact. ”

The last word was accompanied by a hard press of the hand against his companion ’ s lower back, the applied force yet again almost punishing, but Albus was not deterred by it. He slammed the door against the flood of guilt that had arisen at that last word, as blatant an accusation as he ’ d ever heard, and cleared the blood from his throat as he replied,  “ Did you? I had not known. ”

Lies. Of course he had known. That knowledge was the reason why the two of them were seated like this, half a foot apart and separated by a chasm so wide that they could no longer see each other ’ s faces. The hand across the small of his back tightened, but before the Dark Lord could give a biting response, the slim figure of Vinda Rosier wound its way through the shrubbery behind them, clothed in a light green silk that blended in perfectly with their surroundings and clutching a parchment file so tightly that her knuckles were white with strain.

“ Master. ”  How long had she been eavesdropping, if she had been doing so at all? Gellert seemed to trust her implicitly.  “ An urgent message from Leonard Spencer-Moon and the new British Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Master, and it requires your immediate attention. ”  _ She never calls him  “ my Lord ” . _

Gellert glanced at him.  “ Thank you, Rosier. I will now take that. Kindly accompany Albus back inside while I attend to it. ”

The Acolyte bowed as she stepped forward, calmly grasping Albus by his left arm as she steered him around, leading him back into the castle. He caught a glimpse of Gellert ’ s slight frown as he unfolded the message, but then Rosier was guiding him past the twin gargoyles guarding the main entrance, their heads entwined to provide support for the row of metal words embossed above the gates.  Fur das GroBere Wohl. Then he could no longer see Gellert or the lettering, only the spiral staircase leading to his rooms, and the wide hallway below tapestried in red and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Any comments?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember the strange letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hi. Yes, I’m back, after more than a whole month, the longest time I’ve ever gone without posting. Sorry. It’s just that life has been (and still is) highly demanding, what with my final exams and preparing for the winter holidays and an interview with the school magazine. I actually finished this quite some time ago, but hesitated to post it — the next chapter may not follow anytime soon. I recently received a commission for translating some Chinese fairytales into English, and the workload is quite large. I may not have time to draw or write anything over the next few weeks, since it’s necessary to get as much work done as possible before school starts again. I find the idea more than distasteful, and in order to spite reality, I am more determined than ever not to abandon this story.  
> Tumblr: mephistophilia-k12

He weighed the letter first, the envelope encasing it delicately pinched between two elegant fingers, their pads thinly callused by long years spent haggling with the Elder Wand. The parchment sat heavily, its thick edges a solidity balanced by the faint hint of animal fragrance. There was the official seal of the British Ministry, an address signed in Spencer-Moon’s hand, and none of that was unfamiliar — the former Minister had been desperately trying to get into his good graces for days, for the fulfillment of certain ends Gellert had no intention of allowing into existence — yet still he felt unease, sinking into every line traced in the emerald-green ink.

The weight of the epistle was much heavier than he had expected. He turned it over twice, then slitted it open. It was quite short — ten, twenty lines at most — but it marked the end of the calm before a storm. He wondered how Albus should be told. Or if he should be told at all. What had he said at the very end of their conversation? _I hate you, Gellert Grindelwald,_ he had whispered, one fist clenched around the broken bloodpact in his pocket, _I hate you worse than anything else in the world. But my bones tell me that I still love you._

That question would weigh a great deal more than a letter, should he ever forget to deny it. He knows that Albus _should_ be told, deep down; had not the professor shared with him all the details from his strange dream and unwittingly answered a few of his most pressing concerns? Yet it was for precisely this very reason that he now hesitates to broach this thorny subject. That conversation had been difficult enough to begin with; he had no wish to undergo a repeat session... Albus had been by turns cold and taciturn, his mind evidently elsewhere as he reluctantly related every detail he could remember from his encounter with the strange, dark-haired woman, until Gellert was almost tempted to force-feed him Veritaserum in the hopes of saving himself the hassle of coaxing out a reply.

He’d had to dig his nails quite deep into his palms then, to prevent himself from biting out a curse — a reminder that Albus had been furious with him for very good reasons, and it was his duty to practice patience when dealing with an estranged lover. _Patience,_ scolded a tiny voice inside his head (it sounded suspiciously like Tante Bathilda in her ancient, flowery nightdress, whenever she was displeased at having to get up too early in the morning), _Patience, because it is now the least you can do for him. He deserves it, and so do you._

Ah, but patience is never quite reciprocal, is it? Patience works both ways, like trust and love. Nothing like victory, since it can be swallowed by only one.

The thought passed briefly through, like one of Bathilda’s useless remonstrances, and it would have been quite natural for him to abandon it altogether, but he — couldn’t. Couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead he stored it away for a closer look in the near future, _like a squirrel hoarding nuts in a pine tree,_ he noted with wry amusement, and turned on one booted heel in the direction of the castle. A dry, emaciated leaf pirouetted above his light blond locks as he did so, and fluttered to the ground as soon as he was gone, its lament a sigh that no one heard except the tree from whence it came.

———————————————————————————————————————

The fountain lay in pieces, large chunks of marble crumbling to the floor even as she watched, their dull thudding noises in tandem with her rapid pulse. A pebble rolled to within two inches of her left foot, but she kicked it aside carelessly, and it bounced off the forehead of the golden statue of the wizard with a resounding clang that made her wince. _And I didn’t even kick that hard. It’s just that his head is lying on the floor._

Around her lay ruin. The entire foyer and the vault-like hallway leading from it were half-buried in debris that still rained down from the ceiling, with the statues of the centaur and the goblin torn in tatters and the witch’s golden robes askew at an angle she was almost blushing to look at. Coins from the fountain had spilled onto the ground when their stone basin had cracked down the middle, and they lay soaking in the murky inch-high water spreading down the entire length of the hallway, faint glimmers threading through. The surface of the liquid rippled with each step she took, and glimmered as it caught the light from a luminous white ball she had suspended from the ceiling.

Her ankle boots were sopped. Every step sent tiny shivers up her spine, and her mind wandered past images of roaring flames dancing to a lovers’ sarabande, and the thought cracked a small fissure in her waxen eyes. On either side of her stood the remains of tall brick fireplaces, dyed a dim shade of Spanish red, but they too were crumbling, their emerald fires long since extinguished, and she had no more pity to spare. Water was soaking into the building’s very foundations, pinkish water blending into woven bricks, loosening centuries of sweat and grime, and she was grateful for it. _For everything._

A wizard’s prone form stirred, some twenty feet away from her. His brown leather coat, wet and heavy from blood and slush, shone under the harsh light’s glare. He was half-buried beneath a pile of rubble that must have been separated from the wall when he tried to seek refuge behind it, but the decision seems to have backfired spectacularly when a quarter of the building came tumbling down. She could see that one of his legs was bent at a strange angle (the tip of his shoe was pointing backwards), and his other leg was ripped through to the bone, the pale muscles of his calves glistening through the fabric of his dark trousers. He whimpered as she caught his gaze.

_Should I finish him? Or leave him hanging until the blood loss solves my problem?_ For a second she was tempted, remembering that incomparable rush she had felt when blood first splattered onto the stone floor — but no, this would have been the closing ceremony, and completely unnecessary at that.

So she ignored him. He was faceless to her — she only ever knew one face, and that one face was presently beyond her reach — and no more discernible than the crushed mounds of decoration piled about, waiting to relate the story of a bloodbath diluted into water. _You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose._ The pink of it reminded her of his flushed features when Travers had demanded a fight of him, the same beleaguered look he had worn when a pair of metal bracelets were snapped around his wrists, but that was an old memory, old and useless. _Is Mr. Travers also lying somewhere around here?_

Ahead was the end of the marbled hallway, and the face of a well-battered high-rise seen from within. The wall was hundreds of feet high, every inch of it paved with glass windows revealing glimpses of the corridors they concealed, shy and wanton like the world that had built them. Such hypocrisy. Such self-deception. They had thought themselves safe for the time being — as though capitulation to a Dark Lord who thought them bigots could somehow exempt them from the inevitable — it was only hope that killed them, hope and their own short-sightedness. An enormous painting of Leonard Spencer-Moon hung from the rafters, its surface torn into ribbons that fluttered in the stillness, and it mirrored her own thinly-veiled euphoria, but she suppressed that unwanted emotion, boxing it into a compartment in her brain that required no attention, and continued on her way. The Minister’s stern features glared down at her, his gaze steely even though he was only a painting, but she knew better than to heed him. He didn’t like Grindelwald either, that she understood, though he had still yielded to him. _Everyone did. Well — almost everyone._

The whimpering behind her grew louder — the wizard was now trying to extract his legs from beneath the mass of concrete and stone, and failing at it miserably. The other corpses, some lying facedown in the shallow pool of water, were beginning to lose shape, their features growing indistinct as human tissues swelled to accommodate the rush of foreign fluids. It reminded her somewhat of the battlefields she had seen on the Western Front, uniformed soldiers lying piled on top of one another, their bayonets jutting at the gray sky above them, fragments of flesh barely visible through the smoke-ridden haze. They were the Muggles these wizards had so despised, killed by the millions for a cause they could not even name. It was the same all around — you ask the dead for what they had died, and not one of them could really tell you for certain. Some were following orders. Some were there of their own volition. Some believed what they were told. But everyone had died anyway, in the second war if not the first, and no one but the buzzards would ever give a fig as to _why_ they died and _what for._

Did they deserve it? Did they deserve to die like that? Her hand had never been the most merciful, and some of their deaths were nothing if not gruesome. How many, she wondered, had dreamed of dying safe and warm in their beds, with a loved one seated close by? How many had known that they would die in the hated Ministry building where they had worked, whose floors were dank with the perspiration of those whose heads were languishing in the dungeons beneath? They were not innocent. The second war did not last for six years. It had lasted for twenty.

For a moment she halted, in mid-step with one foot raised, teetering on the edge of a new abyss. They were not innocent — they were guilty, guilty of the most appalling treasons. Inaction is treason. Betrayal is treason. Loyalty is treason. Infighting is treason. Indifference is treason. Choosing a side is treason. Suspicion, persecution, the rending of the veil that covers stark reality — all of that is treason, and no one is innocent. Not these wizards, seated on their high and mighty thrones of magic, too aloof and prideful to interfere with mass-slaughter going on right beneath their noses. _Too much treason. I am standing where the precipice begins._

It wasn’t much comfort or reassurance, but the continuous whining of the wizard reminded her of her surroundings, and that time is growing short. She stood awhile, deliberating, twisting a small silvery pocketknife between two fingers, then glanced once behind her left shoulder. Spencer-Moon frowned down at her, but his painting showed a prickle of ill-concealed unease. She could see why they had preferred him to Fawley — he did look a great deal more imposing than the languid, handsome politician Hector had been while in office, more fit for decoration than making decisions, but he too was not enough. No matter how businesslike you looked as the British Minister of Magic, you were never good enough if you were guilty of treason.

She stepped forward, lowered her blade to the exposed neck of the hapless wizard now struggling to free himself in earnest, and pressed down hard on the handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, someone’s thoughts are thoroughly consumed with Albus, and it is not Gellert.


End file.
